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iV o. 82 


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EFFIE OGILVIE 


®lje Storji of a Uoung £ife 


BY 




MES. OLIPHANT 


AUTHOR OP “a country GENTLEMAN” “THE LADIES LINDORES ” ETC. 


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Dr. Johnson 


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EFFIE OGILVIE: 

THE STORY OF A YOUNG LIFE. 


CHAPTER I. 

The family consisted of Effie’s father, her stepmother, her broth- 
er Eric, who was in the army, and a little personage, the most im- 
portant of all, the only child of the second Mrs. Ogilvie, the pet and 
plaything of the house. You may think it would have been more 
respectful and becoming to reverse this description, and present Mr. 
and Mrs. Ogilvie first to the notice of the reader, which we shall 
now proceed to do. The only excuse we can offer for the irregu- 
larity of the beginning consists in the fact that it is the nature of 
their proceedings in respect to the young people, and particularly 
to Mr. Ogilvie’s daughter Effie, which induces us to disturb the 
decorous veil which hangs over the doors of every respectable family, 
in the case of these worthy persons. 

In their own lives, had we time and space to recount all that be- 
fell them, there would, no doubt, be many interesting particulars, as 
in the lives of most other people; but when a country gentleman 
has attained the age of fifty or a little more, with enough of money 
for his necessities, and no more ambition than can be satisfied by the 
regulation of the affairs of the parish, it is inevitably through the 
fortunes of a son or daughter that he comes within reach of the 
sympathies of the world. These troublesome productions, of whom 
we take so little thought at first, who are nothing but playthings and 
embellishments of our own estate for so many years, have a way of 
pushing us out of our commanding position as the chief actors in 
our own lives, setting us aside into a secondary place, and confer- 
ring upon us a quite fictitious interest as influences upon theirs. It 
is an impertinence of fate, it is an irony of circumstance; but still it*^ 
1 


2 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


is SO. And it is, consequently, as Effle’s father, a character in which 
he by no means knew himself, that Mr. Ogilvie of Gilston, a gentle- 
man as much respected as any in his county, the chief heritor in his 
parish, and a deputy - lieutenant, has now to be presented to the 
world. 

He was a good man in his way, not perfect, as in general he was 
himself very willing to allow, though he did not, any more than 
the rest of us, like that niggling sort of criticism which descends to 
particulars. He was a man who would have suffered a little personal 
inconvenience rather than do anything which he was convinced was 
wrong, which most of us, who are old enough to be acquainted with 
our own ways, will be aware is no small thing to say. But, ordi- 
narily, also like most of us, his wrong acts were done without taking 
time to identify them as wrong, on the spur of the moment, in the 
heat of a present impulse which took from them all the sting of pre- 
meditation. 

Thus, when he gave good Glen, the virtuous collie, as he came 
forward smiling and cheerful, with a remark upon the beauty of the 
morning glistening in his bright eyes and waving majestically in his 
tail, that sudden kick which sent the good fellow off howling, and 
oppressed his soul all day with a sense of crime, Mr. Ogilvie did not 
do it by intention, did not come out with the purpose of doing it, 
but only did it because he had just got a letter which annoyed him. 
Glen, who had a tender conscience, lived half the day under a weight 
of unnecessary remorse, convinced that he must himself have done 
something very wieked, though a confused moral sense and the ab- 
sence of a recognized code made him sadly incapable of discovering 
what it was ; but his master had not the slightest intention of inflict- 
ing any such mental torture. 

He treated his human surroundings in something of the same way, 
convincing Eflie sometimes, by a few well-chosen words, of her own 
complete mental and physical incompetency; as, for example, when 
she ran into his library to call his attention to something quite unim- 
portant at the very moment when he was adding up his “ sundries,” 
and had nearly arrived at a result. 

“ If you had any sense of propriety in you, and were not a born 
idiot that never can be taught there’s a time for everything, you 
would know better than to dart in like a whirlwind in your high 
heels, and all that nonsense in your mouth, to drive a man frantic!” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


3 


Eflae would withdraw in tears. But Mr. Ogilvie had not really 
meant any harm. 

He had succeeded to his father’s little estate when he was still in 
his twenties, and had many aspirations. He had not intended to 
withdraw from the bar, although he had few clients to speak of. 
He had indeed fully intended to follow up his profession, and it 
had not seemed impossible that he might attain to the glorious posi- 
tion of lord advocate, or, if not, to that of sheriff-substitute, which 
was perhaps more probable. But by degrees, and especially after 
his marriage, he had found out that professional work was a great 
“ tie,” and that there were many things to be done at home. 

His first wife had been the only daughter of the minister, which 
concentrated his affections still more and more in his own locality. 
When she died, leaving him with two children, who had never been 
troublesome to him before, the neighborhood was moved with the 
deepest sympathy for poor Ogilvie. Some people even thought he 
would not survive it, they had been so united a couple, and lived so 
entirely for each other; or, at least, that he would go away, abandon- 
ing the scene of his past happiness. 

But, on the contrary, he stayed at home, paying the tribute of the 
profoundest dulness for one year to the lost partner of his life, cheer- 
ing up a little decorously afterwards, and at the end of the second 
year marrying again. All this was done, it will be seen, in the most 
respectable and well-regulated way, as indeed was everything that 
Mr. Ogilvie did when he took time to think of it, being actuated by 
a conscientious desire to do bis duty, and set an example to all honest 
and virtuous men. 

Mrs. Ogilvie was not too young to be the second wife of a gen- 
tleman of fifty. She was “quite suitable,” everybody said— which, 
seeing that he might have married a chit of twenty, as mature wid- 
owers have been known to do, was considered by everybody a virtu- 
ous abstinence and concession to the duties of the position. She 
was thirty-five, good-looking, even handsome, and very conscien- 
tious. If it was her husband’s virtuous principle to submit to per- 
sonal inconvenience rather than do anything that he knew to be 
wrong, she went many steps further in the way of excellence, and 
seldom did anything unless she was convinced that it was right. 

With this high meaning she had come to Gilston, and during the 
four years of her reign there had, not sternly— for she was not stern— 


4 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


but Steadily, and she was a woman of great steadiness of mind and 
purpose, adhered to it. 

These years had been very important years, as may be supposed, 
in the life of the two young people whom Mrs. Ogilvie described as 
“the first family.” The boy had been seventeen and the girl fifteen 
when she came home a bride. And their mother had been dead only 
two years: an age at which criticism is more uncompromising, or 
circumstances under which it would be more difficult to begin mar- 
ried life, could scarcely be. They gazed at her with two pairs of 
large eyes, and countenances which did not seem able to smile, not- 
ing everything she did, putting a mute criticism upon the silent 
record, objecting dumbly to everything, to her entrance there at all, 
to her assumption of their mother’s chair, their mother’s name, all 
that was now legally and honorably hers. 

Can any one imagine a more terrible ordeal for a woman to go 
through? She confided to her sister afterwards that if she had acted 
upon impulse, as Robert, poor dear, so often did, the house would 
have become a hell on earth. 

“ I would have liked to have put that boy to the door a hundred 
times a day; and as for Effie! — I never can tell till this day how it 
was that I kept my hands off her,” she said, reddening with the 
recollection of many exasperations past. Women who have filled 
the office of stepmother, aunt, or any other such domestic anomaly, 
will understand and sympathize. And yet, of course, there was a 
great deal to be said on the other side too. 

The children had heard with an indignation beyond words of 
their father’s intention. It had been said to them, with that natural 
hypocrisy which is so transparent and almost pardonable, that he 
took this step very much for their sakes, to give them a new mother. 

A new mother! Seven and five might have taken this in with 
wondering ears and made no remark; but seventeen and fifteen! 
The boy glowed with fierce wrath; the girl shed torrents of hot 
tears. They formed plans of leaving Gilston at once, going away 
to seek their fortunes— to America, to Australia, who could tell 
where? Effie was certain that she would mind no hardship, that 
she could cook and wash, and do everything in the hut, while Eric 
(boys are always so much luckier than girls!) spent the day in the 
saddle after the cattle in the ranche. 

Or they would go orange-farming, ostrich-farming— what did it 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


6 


matter which? — anything, in fact, hut stay at home. Money was 
the great difficulty in this as in almost all other cases, besides the 
dreadful fact that Effie was a girl, a thing which had always been 
hard upon her in all their previous adventures, but now more than 
ever. 

“We might have gone to sea and worked our passages before the 
mast, if you had only been a laddie and not a lassie,” Eric said, with 
a sigh and a profound sense of the general contrariety of events. 
This unalterable misfortune, which somehow seemed (though it was 
she who suffered from it most) her fault, stopped Effle’s tears, and 
brought instead a look of despair into her round face. There flashed 
through her mind an idea of the possibility of neutralizing this dis- 
ability by means of costume. Rosalind did so in Shakespeare, and 
Viola, and so had other heroines in less distant regions. 

But at the idea of trousers Effie’s countenance flamed, and she re- 
jected the thought. It was quite possible to endure being unhappy, 
even in her small experience she was well aware of that — but un- 
womanly! Oh, what would mamma say? That utterance of habit, 
the words that rose to her lips without thinking, even now when 
mamma was about to have a successor — a new mother! — brought 
back the tears in torrents. She flung herself upon Eric’s shoulder, 
and he, poor fellow, gave her, with quivering lips, a little, furtive 
kiss, the only consolation he could think of, though they were not 
at all used to caressing each other. Poor children! and yet Mr. 
Ogilvie had done nothing cruel, and Mrs. Ogilvie was the best-inten- 
tioned woman in the world. 

It was lucky that they were found at this critical moment by an 
individual who is of great importance in this little record of events 
—as he was in the parish and the neighborhood generally— that is 
Uncle John. He was the minister of Gilston; he was their mother’s 
brother; and he was one of the men selected by Providence for the 
consolation of their fellow-creatures. 

Perhaps he was not always very wise. He was too much under 
the sway of his heart to be infallible in the way of advice, although 
that heart was so tender and full of sympathy that it often penetrated 
secrets which were undiscoverable to common men. But in his 
powers of comfort-giving he was perfect. The very sight of him 
soothed the angry and softened the obdurate, and he dried the tears 
of the young by some inspiration given to him alone. 


6 


EFFIE OGlLVrE. 


“ What is the matter?” he said, in his large, soft voice, which was 
deep bass and very masculine, yet had something in it too of the 
wood-pigeon’s brooding tones. They were seated at the foot of a 
tree in the little wood that protected Gilston House from the east, on 
the roots of the big ash which were like gray curves of rock among 
the green moss and the fallen leaves. He came between them, sit- 
ting down too, raising Effie with his arm. 

“But I think I can guess. You are just raging at Providence and 
your father, you two ungrateful bairns.” 

“Ungrateful!” cried Effie. She was the most speechless of the 
two, the most prostrate, the most impassioned, and therefore was 
most ready to reply. 

“Oh, what have we to be grateful for? — our own mamma gone 
away and we’ll never see her more ; and another woman — another — 
a Mistress Ogilvie — ” In her rage and despair she pronounced every 
S3dlable, with what bitterness and burning scorn and fury! Uncle 
John drew her little hands down from her faoe and held them in his 
own, which were not small, but very firm, though they were soft. 

“Your own mother was a very good woman, Effie,” said Uncle 
John. 

The girl paused and looked at him with those fiery eyes which 
were not softened, but made more angry, by her tears, not seeing 
how this bore upon the present crisis of affairs. 

“Have you any reason to suppose that being herself, as we know 
she is, with the Lord whom she loved ” — and here Uncle John took 
off his hat as if he were saluting the dearest and most revered of 
friends—" that she would like you and the rest to be miserable all 
your lives because she was away?” 

“Miserable!” cried Effie. “We were not miserable; we were 
quite happy ; we wanted nothing. Papa may care for new people, 
but we were happy and wanted nothing, Eric and me.” 

“Then, my little Effie,” said Uncle John, “it is not because of 
your own mother that you are looking like a little fury — for you see 
you' have learned to let her go, and do without her, and be quite con^ 
tented in a new way — but only because your father has done the 
same after his fashion, and it is not the same way as yours.” 

“Oh, Uncle John, I am not contented,” cried Effie, conscience- 
stricken; “I think of mamma every day.” 

“And are quite happy,” he said, with a smile, “as you ought to 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


7 


be. God bless her up yonder, behind the veil. She is not jealous 
nor angry, but happy too. And we will be very good friends with 
Mistress Ogilvie, you and me. Come and see that everything is 
ready for her, for she will not have an easy handful with you two 
watching her night and day. ” 


CHAPTER II. 


Though Mr. Moubray said this, it is not to be supposed that he 
liked his brother-in-law’s second marriage. It was not in flesh and 
blood to do that. 

Gilston House must always be the most important house in that 
parish to the minister; for it is at once nearest to the manse, and the 
house in which he is most likely to find people who have at least 
the outside gloss of education. And he had been used to go there 
familiarly for nearly twenty years. He had been a favorite with the 
old people, Mr. Ogilvie’s father and mother, and when their son suc- 
ceeded them he was already engaged to the minister’s young sister. 
There was, therefore, a daily habit of meeting for nearly a lifetime. 
The two men had not always agreed. Indeed, it was not in human 
nature that they should not have sometimes disagreed strenuously, 
one being the chief heritor, restraining every expenditure, and the 
other the minister, who was always, by right of his position, want- 
ing to have something done. 

But after all their quarrels they “ just ’greed again,” which is the 
best and indeed the only policy in such circumstances. And though 
the laird would thunder against that “pig-headed fellow, your 
brother, John,” Mrs. Ogilvie had always been able to smile, knowing 
that on the other hand she would hear nothing worse from the min- 
ister than a recommendation to “remind Robert that schoolhouse 
roofs and manse windows are not eternal.” 

And then the children had woven another link between the two 
houses. Eric had been Uncle John’s pupil since the boy had been 
old enough to trot unattended through the little wood and across 
the two fields which separated the manse from the House; and Effle 
had trotted by his side when the days were fine, and when she 
pleased— a still more important stipulation. They had been the chil- 
dren of the manse almost as much as of the House. 

The death of the mother had, for a time, drawn the tie still closer, 
Ogilvie in his first desolation throwing himself entirely upon the 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 


9 


succor and help of his brother-in-law ; and the young ones clinging 
with redoubled tenderness to the kind Uncle John, whom for the 
first time they found out to be “so like mamma.” There never was 
a day in which he did not appear on his way to his visiting, or to a 
session meeting, or some catechising or christening among the hills. 
They were dependent upon him, and he upon them. But now this 
constant association had come to an end. No, not to an end — that 
it could never do ; but, in all likelihood, it must now change its con- 
ditions. 

John Moubray was an old bachelor without chick or child; so 
most people thought. In reality, he was not a bachelor at all; but 
his married life had lasted only a year, and that was nearly thirty 
years ago. The little world about might be excused for forgetting 
— or himself even — for what is one year out of fifty-four? Perhaps 
that one year had given him more insight into the life of men; per- 
haps it had made him softer, tenderer to the weak. That mild celi- 
bacy which the Church of Rome has found so powerful an instru- 
ment, was touched, perhaps, to a more benignant outcome still in 
this Scotch minister, by the fact that he had loved like his fellows, 
and been as other men in his time, atriumphantbridegroom, a wom- 
an’s husband. But the experience itself was long past, and had left 
no trace behind; it was to him as a dream. Often he felt uncertain 
whether there had been any reality in it at all— whether it was not a 
golden vision such as is permitted to youth. 

In these circumstances, it may be supposed that the closing upon 
him, in any degree, of the house which had been his sister’s, which 
belonged to the most intimate friend of every-day life, and which 
was the home of children who were almost his own children, was 
very serious to Uncle John. 

Mrs. Ogilvie, to do her justice, was anxious to obviate any feeling 
of this kind. The very first time he dined there after her marriage, 
she took him aside into a corner of the drawing-room and talked to 
him privately. 

“ I hope there will be no difference, Mr. Moubray,” she said; “I 
hope you will not let it make any difference that I am here.” 

“ Difference?” said John, startled a little. He had already felt the 
difference, but had made up his mind to it as a thing that must be. 

“I know,” said the lady, “that I’m not clever enough to take 
your sister’s place; but so far as a good meaning goes, and areal de- 


10 


EFFIJ] OGILVIE. 


sire to be a mother to the children, and a friend to you, if you will 
let me, nobody could be better disposed than I am, if you will just 
take me at my word.” 

The minister was so unprepared for any such speech that he stam^ 
mered a little over his reply. 

“ My sister,” he said, “ had no pretensions to be clever. That was 
never the ground my poor Jeanie took up. She was a good wom- 
an, and very dear to — very dear to those she belonged to,” he said, 
with a huskiness in his voice. 

“That’s just what I say. I come here in a way that is hard upon 
a woman, with one before me that I will always be compared to. 
But this one thing I must say, that I hope you will come about the 
house just as often as you used to do, and in the same way, coming 
in whenever it enters your head to do so, and believing that you are 
always welcome. Always w’elcome. I don’t say I will always be 
here, for I think it only right to keep up with society (if it were but 
for EflQe’s sake) more than the last Mrs. Ogilvie did. But I will 
never be happy if you don’t come out and in just in your ordinary, 
Mr. Moubray, just as you’ve always been accustomed to do.” 

John Moubray went home after this address with a mingled sense 
of humor and vexation and approval. It made him half angry to 
be invited to his brother-in-law’s house in this way, as if he required 
invitation. But, at the same time, he did not deny that she meant 
well. 

And she did mean well. She meant to make Effle one of the 
most complete of young ladies, and Gilston the model country-seat 
of a Scotch gentleman. She meant to do her duty to the most minute 
particular. She meant her husband to be happy, and her children 
to be clothed in scarlet and prosperity, and comfort to be diffused 
around. 

All these preliminaries were long past at the point at which this 
narrative begins. Effie had grown up, and Eric was away in India 
with his regiment. He had not been intended for a soldier, but 
wdiether it was that Mrs. Ogilvie’s opinion, expressed very frankly, 
that the army was the right thing for him, influenced the mind of 
the family in general, or whether the lad found the new rule too un- 
like the old to take much pleasure in his home, the fact was that he 
went into the army and disappeared, to the great grief of Effie and 
Uncle John, but, so far as appeared, of no one else, for little Roder- 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


11 


ick had just been born, and Mr. Ogilvie was ridiculously delighted 
with the baby, which seemed to throw his grown-up son altogether 
into the shade. 

It need scarcely be said that both before and after this event there 
was great trouble and many struggles with Eflie, who had been so 
used to her own way, Mrs. Ogilvie said, that to train her was a task 
almost beyond mortal powers. Yet it had been done. So long as 
Eric remained at home the difficulties had been great. 

And then there was all but the additional drawback of a prema- 
ture love-story to make matters worse. But that had been happily, 
silently, expeditiously smothered in the bud, a triumph of which 
Mrs. Ogilvie was so proud that it was with difficulty she kept it 
from Effie herself ; and she did not attempt to keep it from Mr. Mou- 
bray, to whom, after the lads were safely gone, she confided the fact 
that young Ronald Sutherland, who had been constantly about the 
house before her iliarriage, and who since that had spent as much of 
his time with the brother and sister out-of-doors as had been possi- 
ble, had come to Mr. Ogilvie a few days before his departure — 
“ What for, can you imagine?” the lady said. 

Now Ronald was a neighbor’s son, the companion, by nature, of 
the two children of Gilston. He had got his commission in the same 
regiment, and joined it at the same time as Eric. lie was twenty 
when Eric was eighteen, so much in advance and no more. The 
minister could have divined, perhaps, had he set his wits to the 
task, but he had no desire to forestall the explanation, and he shook 
his head in reply. 

“With a proposal for Effie, if you please I” Mrs. Ogilvie said, 
“ and she only sixteen, not half-educated, nor anything like what I 
want her to be. And, if 3"ou will believe me, Robert was half dis- 
posed — well, not to accept it, but to let the' boy speak to her, and 
bring another bonny business on my hands.” 

“ They are too young,” said Uncle John. 

“ Too young! They are too— everything that can be thought of — 
too ridiculous I would say. Fortunately Robert spoke to me, and I 
got him to make the lad promise not to say a word to Effie or to 
any one till he comes back. It will be a long time before he can 
come back, and who knows what may happen in the meantime? 
Too young! There is a great deal more than being merely too 
young. I mean Effie to make a much better match than that.” 


12 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“He is a good boy, ’’said Mr. Moubray; “if he were older, and 
perhaps a little richer, I would not wish a better, for my part.” 

“If all ministers were as unworldly as you! — it is what is sorely 
wanted in the Church, as Robert always says. But parents may be 
pardoned if they look a little more to interest in the case of their 
children. I will very likely never have grown-up daughters of my 
own. And Effle must make a good match; I have set my heart on 
that. She is growing up a pretty creature, and she will be far more 
quiet and manageable for her education now that— Heaven be praised ! 
— those boys are away.” 

“As one of the boys carries a large piece of my heart with him, 
you will not expect me to be so pious and so thankful,” the minister 
said. 

“ Oh, Uncle John! I am sure you would like Effle to get the best 
of educations. She never would have settled down to it, never! if 
that lad had got his way.” • 

Mr. Moubray could not say a word against this, for it was all true ; 
but he could not meet Effle’s wistful eyes when she crept to his side, 
in his study or out-of-doors whenever they met, and hung upon his 
arm, and asked him where he thought they would be by now? It 
was Eric chiefly they were both thinking of, yet Effle unawares said 
“they.” How far would they be on their journey? It was not 
then the quick way such as we are happily used to now, but a long, 
long journey round the stormy Cape, three lingering months of sea, 
and so long, so long before any news could come. 

The uncle and niece, who were now more close companions than 
ever, were found in the minister’s study one day with a map stretched 
out before them, their heads closely bent over it, his all clad with 
vigorous curls of gray, hers shining in soft locks of brown, their 
eyes so intent that they did not hear the opening door and the rustle 
of Mrs. Ogilvie’s silk gown. 

“What are you doing with your heads so close together!” that 
lady said. And the two started like guilty things. But Uncle John 
explained calmly that Effle was feeble in her geography, and no 
more was said. 

And so everything settled down. Effle, it was true, was much 
more manageable after her brother was away. She had to confine 
herself to shorter walks, to give up much of that freedom of move- 
ment which a girl can only be indulged in when she has a brother 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


13 


by her side. She was very dull for a time, and rather rebellious; 
but that too wore out, as everything will wear out if we but wait 
long enough. 

And now she was nineteen, on the threshold of her life — a pretty 
creature, as her stepmother had said, not a great beauty like those 
that bewitch the world when they are seen, which is but rarely. 
Effie was pretty as the girls are by dozens, like the flowers, over- 
flowing over all the face of the country, making it sweet. Her hair 
and her eyes were brown, like most other peoples. She was no won- 
der or prodigy, but fair and honest and true, a pleasure to behold. 
And after all those youthful tribulations she was still a happy 
girl enough at home. 

Mrs. Ogilvie, when all was said, was a well-meaning woman. 
There was no tyranny nor unkindness in the house. 

So this young soul expanded in the hands of the people who had 
the care of it, and who had cared for it so far well, though not with 
much understanding; how it sped in the times of action, and in the 
crisis that was approaching, and how far they did their duty by it, 
we have now to see. 


CHAPTER III. 


The parish of Gilston is not a wealthy one. It lies not far from 
the Borders, where there is much moorland and pasture-land, and 
not much high-farming. The farmhouses are distant and scattered, 
the population small. The greatest house in the district, indeed, 
stands within its boundaries, but that was shut up at this moment, 
and of use to nobody. There were two or three country-houses 
of the smaller sort scattered about, at four and five miles’ distance 
from each other, and a cluster of dwellings near the church, in which, 
amid a few cottages, rose the solid, square house of the doctor, which 
he called Gowanbrae, and the cottage of the Miss Dempsters, which 
they called Rosebank. 

The doctor, whose name was Jardine, had a great deal to do, and 
rode about the country early and late. The Miss Dempsters had noth- 
ing to do except to keep up a general supervision of the proceedings 
of the neighbors and of all that happened in the country-side. It 
was a supervision not unkind. 

They were good neighbors, always handy and ready in any case 
of family affliction or rejoicing. They were ready to lend anything 
and everything that might be required— pepper, or a lemon, or cloves, 
or soap, or any of the little things that so generally give out before 
the storeroom is replenished, when you are out of reach of co-opera- 
tive stores or grocers’ shops; or their glass and china, or knives, or 
lumps — or even a fine pair of silver candlesticks which they were 
very proud of — when their neighbors had company; or good advice 
to any extent, which sometimes was not wanted. 

It was perhaps because everybody ran to them in case of need 
that they were so well acquainted with everybody’s affairs. And 
then people were so unreasonable as to find fault and call the Miss 
Dempsters gossips. It was undeserved; they spoke ill of nobody 
unless there was good cause; they made no mischief; but they did 
know everything, and they did more or less superintend the life of 
the parish, having leisure and unbounded interest in life. 


EFFEE OGILVIE. 


15 


The neighbors grumbled and sometimes called them names — old 
maids, old cats, and many other pretty titles, which did not prevent 
them from borrowing the spoons or the candlesticks, or sending for 
Miss Robina when anything happened. Had these excellent ladies 
died the parish would have mourned sincerely, and they would have 
been universally missed; but as they were alive and well they were 
called the old cats. Human nature is subject to such perversities. 

The rural world in general had thus an affectionate hostility to 
the all - seeing, all - knowing, all - aiding ladies of Rosebank ; but be- 
tween them and Dr. Jardine the feeling was a good deal stronger. 
Hatred, it was understood, was not too strong a word. Rosebank 
stood a little higher than Gowanbrae; it was raised, indeed, upon a 
knoll, so that the house, though in front only one story, was two 
stories behind, and in reality a much larger house than it looked. 
The doctor’s house was on the level of the village, and the Miss 
Dempsters, from their point of vantage, commanded him completely. 

He was of opinion that they watched all his proceedings from the 
windows of their drawing-room, which in summer were always 
open, with white curtains fluttering, and baskets of flowers so ar- 
ranged that it was hopeless to attempt to return the inspection. 
There was a garden bench on the path that ran in front of the win- 
dows, and on fine days Miss Robina, who was not at all rheumatic, 
would sit there in order to see the doctor’s doings more distinctly. 
So at least the doctor thought. 

“You may say it’s as good as a lady at the head of my table,” 
said the doctor. “That old cat counts every bite I put into my 
mouth. She knows what Merran has got for my dinner, and watches 
me eat. I cannot take a glass of wine, when I’m tired, but they 
make a note of it.” 

“ Then, doctor, you should draw down your blind,” said the min- 
ister, who was always a peacemaker. 

“Me!” cried Dr. Jardine, with a fine Scotch contempt for the other 
pronoun. “Me give the old hag that satisfaction. Not for the 
half of Scotland 1 I am doing nothing that I am ashamed of, I hope.” 

Miss Robina, on her side, expressed other views. She had a soft, 
slightly indistinct voice, as if that proverbial butter that “would 
not melt in her mouth ” was held there when she spoke. 

“ It’s a great vexation,” she said, in her placid way, “that we can- 
not look out at our own windows without being affronted with the 


16 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


sight of that hideous house. It’s just an offence; and a man’s house 
that is shameless — that will come to the window and take off his 
dram, and nod his head as if he were saying, ‘Here’s to ye.’ It is 
just an offence,” Miss Robina said. 

Miss Robina was the youngest. She was a large woman, soft and 
imperfectly laced, like a cushion badly stuffed and bulging here and 
there. Her hair was still yellow as it had been in her youth, but 
her complexion had not worn so well. Her features w'ere large, like 
her person. Miss Dempster was smaller and gray, which she con- 
sidered much more distinguished than the yellow braids of her sister. 

“It’s common to suppose Beenie dyes her hair; but I’m thankful 
to say nobody can doubt me,” she would say. “ It was very bonny 
hair when we were young; but when the face gets old there’s some- 
thing softening in the white. I would have everybody gray at our 
age; not that Beenie dyes — oh, no! She never had that much 
thought.” 

Miss Beenie was always in the foreground, taking up much more 
room than her sister, and able to be out in all weathers. But Miss 
Dempster, though rheumatic, and often confined to the house, was 
the real head of everything. It was she who took upon her chiefly 
the care of the manners of the young people, and especially of Effie 
Ogilvie,who was the foremost object of regard, inspection, and criti- 
cism to these ladies. They knew everything about her from her 
birth. She could not have a headache without their knowledge 
(though indeed she gave them little trouble in this respect, her head- 
aches being few); and as for her wardrobe, even her new chemises 
(if the reader will not be shocked) had to be exhibited to the sisters, 
who had an exasperating way of investigating a hem, and inspect- 
ing the stitching, which, as they were partly made by Elfie herself, 
made that young lady’s brow burn. 

“But I approve of your trimmings,” Miss Dempster said; “none 
of your common cotton stuff. Take my word for it, a real lace is 
ten times thriftier. It will wear and wear— while that rubbish has 
to be thrown into the fire.” 

“ It was some we had in the house,” Mrs. Ogilvie said; “ I could 
not let her buy thread-lace for her underclothes.” 

“ Oh, ay, it would be some of her mother’s,” said Miss Robina, 
with a nod and a tone which as good as said, “That accounts for it.” 
And this made Mrs. Ogilvie indignant too. 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


17 


The Miss Dempsters had taken a great interest in Ronald Suther- 
land. They knew (of course) how it was that Mrs. Ogilvie so skil- 
fully had balked that young hero in his intentions, and they did not 
approve. The lady defended herself stoutly. 

“An engagement at sixteen!” she cried, “and with a long-legged 
lad in a marching regiment, with not enough money to buy himself 
shoes. ” 

“And how can ye tell,” said Miss Robina, “ that she will ever get 
another offer? He was a nice lad — and nice lads are not so plentiful 
as they were in our days. ” 

“For all so plentiful as they were, neither you nor me, Mrs. Ogil- 
vie is thinking, ever came to that advancement,” said Miss Demp- 
ster. “ And that’s true. But I’m not against young engagements, 
for my part. It is a great divert to them both, and a very good 
thing for the young man ; where there’s land and sea between them 
that they cannot fash their neighbors, I can see no harm in it; and 
Ronald was a good lad.” 

“Without a penny!” 

“The pennies will come where there’s good conduct and a good 
heart. And I would have let her choose for herself. It’s a great 
divert — ” 

“I must do my own business my own way, Miss Dempster, and 
I think I am the best judge of what is good for Effie. I and her 
father.” 

“ Oh, no doubt — you and her father; her mother might have been 
of a different opinion. But that’s neither here nor there, for the 
poor thing is dead and gone.” 

“Well, Sarah,” said Miss Robina, “it’s to be hoped so or the 
laird, honest man, would be in a sad position, and our friend here no 
better. It’s unbecoming to discourse in that loose way. No, no; 
we are meaning no interference. We’ve no right. We are not even 
cousins or kinswomen, only old friends. But Ronald, ye see— 
Ronald is a kind of connection. We are wae for Ronald, poor lad. 
But he’s young, and there’s plenty of time, and there’s no saying 
what may happen.” 

“Nothing shall happen if I can help it; and I hope there will not 
be a word said to put anything in EflBe’s head,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
And ever since this discussion she had been more severe than ever 
against the two old ladies. 

2 


18 


EFFIE OGILVIE, 


“Take care that ye put no confidence in them,” she said to her 
stepdaughter. “ They can he very sweet when it suits their purpose. 
But I put no faith in them. They will set you against your duties — 
they will set you against me. No doubt I’m not your mother; but 
I have always tried to do my duty by you. ” 

Effie had replied with a few words of acknowledgment. Mrs. 
Ogilvie was always very kind. It was Uncle John’s conviction, 
which had a great deal of weight with the girl, that she meant sin- 
cerely to do her duty, as she said. But, nevertheless, the doors of 
Effie’s heart would not open; they yielded a little, just enough to 
warrant her in feeling that she had not closed them, but that was all. 

She was much more at ease with the Miss Dempsters than with her 
stepmother. Her relations with them were quite simple. They had 
scolded her and questioned her all her life, and she did not mind 
what they said to her. Sometimes she would blaze into sudden re- 
sentment and cry, or else avenge herself with a few hot words. But 
as there was no bond of duty in respect to her old friends, there was 
perfect freedom in their intercourse. If they hurt her she cried out. 
But when Mrs. Ogilvie hurt her she was silent and thought the more. 

Effie was just nineteen when it began to be rumored over the 
country that the mansion-house of Allonby was let. There was no 
place like it within twenty miles. It was an old house, with the re- 
mains of a house still older by its side — a proof that the Allonbies 
had been in the country-side since the old days when life so near the 
Border was full of disturbance. 

The house lay low on the side of a stream, which, after it had 
passed decorously by the green lawns and park, ran into a dell 
which was famed far and near. It was in itself a beautiful little 
ravine, richly wooded, in the midst of a country not very rich in 
wood; and at the opening of the dell, or dene, as they called it, was 
one of those little lonely churchyards which are so pathetic in Scot- 
land, burying- places of the past, which are to be found in the strang- 
est, unexpected places, sometimes without any trace of the protecting 
chapel which in the old times must have consecrated their loneliness 
and kept the dead like a faithful watcher. 

In the midst of this little cluster of graves there were, however, 
the ruins of a humble little church very primitive and old, which, 
but for one corner of masonry with a small lancet window still stand- 
ing, would have looked like a mound somewhat larger than the rest; 


EPFLE OGILVIE. 


19 


and in the shadow of the ruin was a tombstone, with an inscription 
which recorded an old tragedy of love and death; and this it was 
which brought pilgrims to visit the little shrine. 

The proprietor of the house was an old Lady Allonby, widowed 
and childless, who had long lived in Italy, and was very unlikely 
ever to return; consequently it made a great excitement in Gilston 
when it became known that at last she had been persuaded to let her 
house, and that a very rich family, a very gay family, people with 
plenty of money, and the most liberal inclinations in the way of 
spending, were coming to Allonby. 

■ They were people who had been in business, rich people, people 
from London. There were at least one son and some daughters. 
The inhabitants of the smaller houses, the Ogilvies, the Johnstons, 
the Hopes, and even the Miss Dempsters — all the families who com 
sidered themselves county people — had great talks and consultations 
as to whether they should call. There were some who thought it 
was their duty to Lady Allonby, as an old friend and neighbor, and 
there were some who thought it a duty to themselves. 

The Diroms, which was the name of the strangers, were not in 
any case people to be ignored. They gave, it was said, everything 
that could be given in the way of entertainment; the sons and the 
daughters at least, if not the father and mother, were well educated. 

But there were a few people who were not convinced by these 
arguments. The Miss Dempsters stood in the front of this resisting 
party. They did not care for entertainments, and they did not like 
parvenues. The doctor, on the other hand, who had not much family 
to brag of, went to Allonby at once. He said, in his rough way, 
that it was a providence there was so much influenza fleeing about, 
which had made it necessary to send for him so soon. 

“ I went, you may be sure, as fast as Bess’s four legs could carry 
me, I’m of opipion there are many guineas for me lying about 
there, and it would be disgraceful not to take them,” tfle doctor said, 
with a laugh. 

There’s no guineas in the question for Beenie and me,” said Miss 
Dempster. “ I’m thinking we’ll keep our view of the question. I’m 
not fond of new people, and I think Lady Allonby, after staying so 
Jong away, might just have stayed to the end, and let the heirs do 
what they liked. Bhe pannqt want the mopey; and it’s just ap 
abomination to put strange folk in the house of your fathers; and 


20 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


folk that would have been sent down to the servants’ hall in other 
days. ” 

“Not so bad as that,” said the minister, “unless perhaps you are 
going back to feudal times. Money has always had its acknowledg- 
ment in modern society — and has paid for it sweetly.” 

“ We will give it no acknowledgment, ” said the old lady. ‘ ‘ W e're 
but little likely to be the better for their money.” 

This conversation took place at a little dinner in Gilston House, 
convened, in fact, for the settlement of the question. 

“That accounts for the difference of opinion,” said the doctor. 
“I’ll be a great deal the better for their money; and I’m not mind- 
ing about the blood— so long as they’ll keep it cool with my prescrip- 
tions,” he added, with a laugh. He was a coarse man, as the Rose- 
bank ladies knew, and what could you expect? 

“ There is one thing,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “ that has a great effect 
upon me, and that is, that there are young people in the house. 
There are not many young people in the neighborhood, which is a 
great disadvantage for Effle. It would be a fine thing for her to 
have some companions of her own age. But I would like to hear 
something niore about the family. Can anybody tell me who she 
was? The man may be a parvenu, but these sort of persons some- 
times get very nice wives. There was a friend of my sister’s that 
married a person of the name of Dirom. And she was a Maitland: 
so there is no telling.” 

“ There are Maitlands and Maitlands,” said Miss Robina. “ It’s a 
very good name; but our niece that is married in the north had a 
butler that was John Maitland. I said she should just call him 
John. But he did not like that. And then there was a joke that 
they would call him Lauderdale. But the man was just very much 
offended, and said the name was his own name, as much as if he 
was a duke; in which, no doubt, he was right.” 

“ That’s the way with all Scotch names,” said her sister. “ There 
are Dempsters that I would not hire to wait at my table. We are 
not setting up to be better than our neighbors. I’m not standing on 
a name. But I would not encourage these mere moneyed folk to 
come into a quiet neighborhood and flaunt their big purses in our 
faces. They’ll spoil the servants, they’ll learn the common folk ill 
ways. That’s always what happens. Ye’ll see the very chickens 
will be dearer, and Nancy Miller at the shop will set up her saucy 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


21 


face, and tell ye they’re all ordered for Allonby; so they shall have 
no countenance from me.” 

“There is something in that,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “hut we have 
plenty of chickens of our own; I seldom need to buy. And then 
there is Effle to take into consideration. They will be giving balls 
and parties. I have Effle to think of. I am thinking I will have to 
go.” 

“I hope Effle will keep them at a distance,” said Miss Robina. 
Effle heard this discussion without taking any part in it. She had 
no objection to balls and parties, and there was in her mind the 
vague excitement with which a girl always hears of possible com- 
panions of her own age. 

What might be coming with them? new adventures, new experi- 
ences, eternal friendship perhaps — perhaps — who can tell what? 
Whether the mother was a Maitland or the father a parvenu, as the 
ladies said, it mattered little to Effle. She had few companions, and 
her heart was all on the side of the new people with a thoughtless- 
ness in respect to their antecedents which perhaps was culpable. 

But then Effle was but nineteen, which made a difference, Miss 
Robina herself was the first to allow. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ We will just go without waiting any longer,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, 
“We are their nearest neighbors — and they will take it kind if we 
lose no time. As for these old eats, it will be little matter to the Di- 
roms what they do; but your papa, that is a different affair. It can 
do no harm, for everybody knows who we are, Effie, and it may do 
good. So we will be on the safe side, whatever happens. ‘ And 
there is nothing much doing for the horses to-day. Be you ready at 
three o’clock, and we will take Rory in the carriage for a drive.” 

Effie obeyed her stepmother with alacrity. She had not taken any 
part in the argument, but her imagination had found a great deal to 
say. She had seen the young Diroms out riding. She had seen 
them at church. There were two girls about her own age, and there 
was a brother. The brother was of quite secondary importance, she 
said to herself ; nevertheless, there are always peradventures in the 
air, and when one thinks that at any moment one’s predestined com- 
panion — he whom Heaven intends, whatever men may think or say 
— may walk round the corner. 

The image of Ronald, which had never been very deeply imprint- 
ed, had faded out of Effie’s imagination. It had never reached any 
further than her imagination. And in her little excitement and the 
pleasurable quickening of her pulsations, as she set out upon this 
drive with her stepmother, there was that vague sense that there 
was no telling what might come of it, which gives zest to the pro- 
ceedings of youth. It was the nearest approach to setting out upon 
a career of adventure which had ever fallen to Effie’s share. She 
was going to discover a world. She was a new little Columbus, set- 
ting her sail towards the unknown. 

Mrs. Ogilvie ran on all the way with a sort of monologue, every 
sentence of which began with, “I wonder.” 

“ Dear me, I wish I could have found out who she was. I won- 
der if it will turn out to be my sister’s friend. She was a great deal 
older than I am, of course, and might very well have grown-up sons 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


23 


and daiighters. For Mary is the eldest of us all, and if she had ever 
had any children, they would have been grown up by this time. 
We will see whether she will say anything about Mary. And I won- 
der if you will like the girls. They will always have been accus- 
tomed to more luxury than would be at all becoming to a country 
gentleman’s daughter like you. And I wonder if the young man 
— the brother — will be always at Allonby. We will have to ask 
them to dinner. And I wonder — ” But here Mrs. Ogilvie’s won- 
derings were cut short on her lips; and so great was her astonish- 
ment that her lips dropped apart, and she sat gaping, incapable of 
speech. 

“ I declare!” she cried, at last, and could say no more. The cause 
of this consternation was that, as they entered the avenue of Allon- 
by, another vehicle met them coming down. And this turned out 
to be the carriage from the inn, which was the only one to be had 
for ten miles round, conveying Miss Dempster and Miss Beenie, in 
their best apparel. The Gilston coachman stopped, as was natural, 
and so did the driver of the cab. 

"‘Well,” cried Miss Dempster, waving her hand, “ye are going, 
I see, after all. We’ve just been having our lunch with them. 
Since it was to be done, it was just as well to do it in good time. 
And a very nice luncheon it was, and nicely set upon the table, that I 
must say — but how can you wonder, with such a number of servants! 
If they’re not good for that, they’re good for nothing. There was 
just too much, a great deal too much, upon the table; and a fine 
set-out of plate, and — ” 

“ Sarah, Mrs. Ogilvie is not minding about that.” 

“ Mrs. Ogilvie is like other folk, and likes to hear our first impres- 
sions. And, Effie,jou will need just to trim up your beaver; for 
though they are not what you can call fine, they are in the flower of 
the fashion. We’ll keep you no longer. Sandy, you may drive 
on. Eh! no— stop a moment,” cried the old lad}'’, flourishing her 
umbrella. 

The Gilston coachman had put his horses in motion also ; so that 
when the two carriages were checked again, it was obliquely and 
from a distance, raising her voice, that Miss Dempster shouted this 
piece of information: “ Ye’ll be gratified to hear that she was a Miss 
Maitland,” the old lady cried. 

“ Well, if ever I heard the like,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, as they went 


24 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


on. “There to their lunch, after vowing they would never give 
their countenance! That shows how little you can trust even your 
nearest neighbors. They are just two old cats! But I am glad she 
is the person I thought. As Mary’s sister, I will have a different 
kind of a standing from ordinary strangers, and you will profit by 
that, Effie. I would not wonder if you found them a great acquisi- 
tion; and your father and me, we would be very well pleased. 
We’ve heard nothing about the gentlemen of the house. I wonder 
if they’re always at home. As I was saying, I wonder if that broth- 
er of theirs is an idle man about the place, like so many. I’m not 
fond of idle men. I wonder — ” 

And for twenty minutes more Mrs. Ogilvie continued wondering, 
until the carriage drew up at the door of Allonby, which was open, ' 
admitting a view of a couple of fine footmen and two large dogs, 
which last got up and came forward with lazy cordiality, to welcome 
the visitors. 

“Dear me,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, aside. “I am always distressed 
with Glen for lying at the door. I wonder if it can be the fashion. 

I wonder — ” 

There was time for these remarks, for there was a long corridor to 
go through before a door was softly opened, and the ladies found 
themselves, much to their surprise, in what Mrs. Ogilvie afterwards 
called “ the dark.” It was a room carefully shaded to that twilight 
which is dear at the present period to fashionable eyes. The sun is 
never too overpowering at Gilston; but the Miss Diroms were young 
women of their generation, and scorned to discriminate. They had 
sun-blinds without and curtains within, so that the light was tem- 
pered into an obscurity in which the robust eyes of country people, 
coming out of that broad, vulgar daylight to which they were ac- 
customed, could at first distinguish nothing. , 

Effie’s young and credulous imagination was in a quiver of antici- 
pation, admiration, and wonder. It was all new to her— the great 
house, the well-regulated silence, the poetic gloom. She held her 
breath, expecting what might next be revealed to her, with the awe 
and entranced and wondering satisfaction of a novice about to be in- 
itiated. The noiseless figures that rose and came forward and with 
a soft pressure of her hand, two of them mistily white, the other 
(only the mother, who didn’t count) dark, impressed her beyond de- 
scription. 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


25 


The only thing that a little diminished the spell was the voices, 
more highly pitched than those native to the district, in unaccus- 
tomed modulations of “ high English.” Effie murmured, quite un- 
consciously, an indistinct “Very well, thank you,” in answer to 
their greetings, and then they all sat down, and it became gradually 
possible to see. 

The two Miss Diroms were tall and had what are called fine fig- 
ures. They came and sat on either side of Effie, one clasping her 
hands round her knees, the other leaning back in a corner of the deep 
sofa with her head against a cushion. The sofa and the cushion 
were covered with yellow damask, against which the white dress 
made a pretty harmony, as Efiie’s eyes got accustomed to the dim- 
ness. But Effie, sitting very straight and properly in her chair, was 
much bewildered by the ease with which one young lady threw her 
arms over her head, and the other clasped them round her knees. 

“ How good of you to come,” said the one on the sofa, who was 
the eldest. “We were wondering if you would call.” 

“We saw you at church on Sunday,” said the other, “and we 
thought you looked so nice. What a funny little church! I sup- 
pose we ought to say k’k.” 

“Miss Ogilvie will tell us what to say^ and how to talk to the na- 
tives. Do tell us. We have been half over the world, but never in 
Scotland before.” 

“ Oh, then, you will, perhaps, have been in India,” said Effie; “my 
brother is there.” 

“Is he in the army? Of course, all Scotch people have sons in 
the army. Oh, no, we’ve never been in India.” 

“ India,” said the other, “is not in the world — it’s outside. We’ve 
been everywhere where people go. Is he coming back soon? Is he 
good at tennis and that sort of thing? Do you play a great deal 
here?” 

“They do at Lochlee,” said Effie, “and at Kirkconnel; but not 
me. For I have nobody to play with.” 

“Poor little thing!’' said the young lady on the sofa, patting her 
on the arm; and then they both laughed, while Effie grew crimson 
with shy pride and confusion. She did not see what she had said 
that was laughable; but it was evident that they did, and this is not 
an agreeable sensation even to a little girl. 

‘ ‘ You shall come here and play, ” said the other. “ We are having 


2G 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


a new court made. And Fred — where is Fred, Phyll? — Fred will 
be so pleased to have such a pretty little thing to play with.” 

“How should I know where he is? — mooning about somewhere, 
sketching or something.” 

“Oh,” said Effie, “do you sketch?” Perhaps she was secretly 
mollified, though she said to herself that she was yet more offended, 
by being called a pretty little thing. 

“Not I; but my brother, that is Fred; and I am Phyllis, and she 
is Doris. Now tell us your name, for we can’t go on calling each 
other miss, can we? Such near neighbors as we are, and going to 
see so much of each other.” 

“No, of course we can’t go on saying miss. What should you 
say was her name, Phyll? Let us guess. People are always like 
their names. I should say Violet.” 

“ Dear no, such a mawkish little sentimental name. She is not 
sentimental at all — are you? What is an Ogilvie name? You have 
all family names in Scotland, haven’t you, that go from mother to 
daughter?” 

Effie sat confused while they talked over her. She was not ac- 
customed to this sudden familiarity. To call the girls by their names, 
when she scarcely had formed their acquaintance, seemed terrible to 
her — alarming, yet pleasant too. She blushed, yet felt it was time 
to stop the discussion. 

“They call me Effie,” she said. “That is not all my name, but it 
is my name at home.” 

“ They call me Effie,” repeated Doris, with a faint mockery in her 
tone; “what a pretty way of saying it, just like the Italians! If you 
are going to be so conscientious as that, I wasn’t christened Doris, 
I must tell you ; but I was determined Phyll should not have all the 
luck. We are quite eighteenth century here — furniture and all.” 

“But I can’t see the furniture,” said Effie, making for the first 
time an original remark. “ Do you like to sit in the dark?” 

At this both the sisters laughed again, and said that she was a 
most amusing little thing. “But don’t say that to mamma, or it 
will quite strengthen her in her rebellion. She would like to sit in 
the sun, I believe. She was brought up in the barbarous ages, and 
doesn’t know any better. There she is moving off into the other 
room with your mother. Now the two old ladies will put their heads 
together—” 


EFFIE OGILVtF. 


27 


“Mrs. Ogilvie is not an old lady,” said Effie, hastily; “she is my 
stepmother. She is almost as young as—” Here she paused, with a 
glance at Miss Phyllis on the sofa, who was still lying hack with her 
head against the cushion. Effie felt instinctively that it would not 
be wise to finish her sentence. “ She is a great deal younger than 
you would suppose,” she added, once more a little confused. 

“ That explains why you are in such good order. Have you to do 
what she tells you? Mamma is much better than that — we have her 
very well in hand. Oh, you are not going yet. It is impossible. 
There must be tea before you go. Mamma likes everybody to have 
something. And then Fred — you must see Fred— or at least he must 
see you — ” 

“Here he is,” said the other, with a sudden grasp of Effie’s arm. 

Effie was much .startled by this call upon her attention. She 
turned round hastily, following the movement of her new friends. 
There could not have been a more dramatic appearance. Fred was 
coming in by a door at the end of the room. He had lifted a cur* 
tain which hung over it, and stood in the dim light outside holding 
back the heavy folds — looking, it appeared, into the gloom to see if 
any one was there. 

Naturally, coming out of the daylight his eyes at first made out 
nothing, and he stood for some time in this highly effective attitude — 
a spectacle which was not unworthy a maiden’s eye. He was tall and 
slim like his sisters, dark, almost olive in his complexion, with black 
hair clustering closely in innumerable little curls about his head. 
He was dressed in a gray morning suit, with a red tie, which was the 
only spot of color visible, and had a great effect. He peered into 
the gloom, curving his eyelids as if he had been shortsighted. 

Then, when sufficient time had elapsed to fix his sight upon Effie’s 
sensitive imagination like a sun picture, he spoke: “ Are any of you 
girls there ?” This was all, and it was not much, that Fred said. He 
was answered by a chorus of laughter from his sisters. They were 
very fond of laughing, Effie thought. 

“Oh, yes, some of us girls are here — three of us. You can come 
in and be presented,” Phyllis said. 

“If you think you are worthy of it,” said Doris, once more grasp- 
ing Effie’s arm. 

They had all held their breath a little when the hero thus dra- 
matically presented himself. Doris had kept her hand on Effie’s 


28 


EFFIE OGILVIE, 


wrist; perhaps because she wished to feel those little pulses jump, 
or else it was because of that inevitable peradventure which pre- 
sented itself to them too, as it had done to Effle. This was the first 
meeting, but how it might end, or what it might lead to, who could 
tell ? The girls, though they were so unlike each other, all three held 
their breath. And then the sisters laughed as he approached, and 
the little excitement dropped. 

“I wish you wouldn’t sit in the dark,” said Fred, dropping the 
curtain behind him as he entered. “I can’t see where you are sit- 
ting, and if I am not so respectful as I ought to be, I hope I may be 
forgiven, for I can see nothing. Oh, here you are !” 

“ It is not the princess; you are not expected to go on your knees,” 
said his sisters, while Effle once more felt herself blush furiously at 
being the subject of the conversation. “You are going to be pre- 
sented to Miss Ogilvie— -don’t you know the young lady in white? 
— oh, of course, you remember. Effle, my brother Fred. And now 
you know us all, and we are going to be the best of friends.” 

“ This is very familiar,” said Fred. “Miss Ogilvie, you must not 
visit it upon me if Phyll and Dor are exasperating. They al^vays 
are. But when you come to know them they are not so bad as you 
might think. They have it all their own way in this house. It has 
always been the habit of the family to let the girls have their own 
way — and we find it works well on the whole, though in point of 
manners it may leave something to be desired.” 

He had thrown himself carelessly on the sofa beside his sister as 
he spoke. Effle sat very still and erect on her chair and listened with 
a dismay and amazement which it would be hard to put into words. 
She did not know what to say to this strange group. She was afraid 
of them, brother and sisters and altogether. It was the greatest re- 
lief to her when Mrs. Ogilvie returned into the room again, discours 
ing in very audible tones with the mistress of the house. 

“I am sure I am very glad to have met with you,” Mrs. Ogilvie 
was saying. “They will be so pleased to hear everything. Poor 
thing! she is but lonely, with no children about her, and her husband 
dead this five years and more. He was a great loss to her — the 
kindest man, and always at her call. But we must just make up our 
mind to take the bitter with the sweet in this life. Effle, where are 
you? We must really be going. We have Kory, that is my little 
boy, with us in the carriage, and he will be getting very tired of 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


29 


waiting. I hope it will not be long before we see you at Gilston. 
Good-bye, Mrs. Dirom; Effie, I hope you have said to the young 
ladies that we will be glad to see them — and you too,” giving her 
hand to Fred — “you especially, for we have but few young men in 
the country.” 

“I accept your invitation as a compliment to the genus young 
man, Mrs. Ogilvie— not to me.” 

“ Well, that is true,” she said, with a laugh ; “but I am sure, from 
what I can see of you, it will soon be as particular as you could wish. 
Young people are a great want just in this corner of the country. 
Effie, poor thing, has felt it all her life; but I hope better things will 
be coming for her now.” 

“ She shall not be lonely if we can help it,” said the sisters. They 
kissed her as they parted, as if they had known her for years, and 
called her “ dear Effie!” waving their hands to her as she disappeared 
into the light. They did not go out to the door with the visitors, as 
Effie, in the circumstances, would have done, but yet sent her away 
dazzled by their affectionateness, their offers of regard. 

She felt another creature, a girl with friends, a member of society, 
as she drove away. What a thing it is to have friends 1 She had 
been assured often by her stepmother that she was a happy girl to 
have so many people who took an interest in her, and would always 
be glad to give her good advice. Effie knew where to lay her hand 
upon a good deal of good advice at any moment ; but that is not 
everything that is required in life. 

Phyllis and Doris! they were like names out of a book, and it was 
like a picture in her memory, the slim figure in white sunk deep in 
the yellow damask of the sofa, with her dark hair relieved against 
the big, soft, puffy cushion. Exactly like a picture; whereas Effie 
herself had sat straight up like a little country girl. Mrs. Ogilvie 
ran on like a purling stream as they drove home, expressing her sat- 
isfaction that it was Mary’s friend who was the mistress of the house, 
and describing all the varieties of feeling in her own mind on the 
subject— her conviction that this was almost too good to be true, 
and just more fortunate than could be hoped. 

But Effie listened, and paid no attention. She had a world of her 
own now to escape into. Would she ever be bold enough to call 
them Phyllis and Doris?— and then Fred— but nobody surely would 
expect her to call him Fred, 


30 


EFPIE OGILVIE. 


Effie was disturbed in these delightful thoughts, and Mrs. Ogilvie’s 
monologue was suddenly broken in upon by a sound of horse’s hoofs, 
and a dust and commotion upon the road, followed by the appari- 
tion of Dr, Jardine’s mare, with her head almost into the carriage 
window on Effle’s side. The doctor’s head above the mare’s was 
pale. There was foam on his lips, and he carried his riding-whij) 
short and savagely, as if he meant to strike some one. 

“ Tell me ]ust one thing,” he said, without any preliminary greet- 
ings; “ have these women been there?” 

“ Dear me, doctor, what a fright you have given me. Is anything 
wrong with Robert; has anything happened? Bless me, the wom- 
en! what women? You have just taken my breath away.” 

“These confounded women that spoil everything — will ye let mc' 
know if they were there?” 

“Oh, the Miss — Well, yes — I was as much surprised as you, 
doctor. With their best bonnets on, and all in state in Mr. Ewing’s 
carriage; they were there to their lunch.” 

The doctor swore a solemn oath — by — 1 something which he did 
not say, which is always a safe proceeding. 

“You’ll excuse me for stopping you, but I could not believe it. 
The old cats! And to their lunch!” At this he gave a loud laugh, 
“They’re just inconceivable!” And rode away. 


CHAPTER V. 


The acquaintance thus formed between the houses of Allonby 
and Gilston was followed by much and close intercourse. In the 
natural order of things there came two dinner-parties, the first of 
which was given by Mrs. Ogilvie, and was a very elaborate business. 
The lady of Gilston began her preparations as soon as she returned 
from that first momentous call. She spent a long time going over 
the list of possible guests, n^aking marks upon the sheet of paper on 
which Effie had written out the names, 

“Johnstones — three — no, but that will never do. Him and her 
we must have, of course; but Mary must just stay at home, or come 
after dinner; where am I to get a gentleman for her? There will 
have to be two extra gentlemen anyway for Effie, and one of the 
Miss Diroms. Do ye think Pm just made of men? No, no, Mary 
Johnstone will have to stay at home. The Duncans? — well, he’s 
cousin to the marquis, and that is always something; but he’s a fool- 
ish creature, and his wife is not much better. Mrs. Heron and Sir 
John — oh, yes; she is just a credit to see at your table, with her 
diamonds; and though he is rather doited, poor man, he is a great 
person in the county. Well, and what do you say to the Smiths? 
They’re nobody in particular, so far as birth goes; but the country 
is getting so dreadfully democratic that what does that matter? And 
they’re moneyed people like the Diroms themselves, and Lady Smith 
has a great deal to say for herself. We will put down the Smiths, 
But, Effie, there is one thing that just drives me to despair—” 

“Yes?” said Effie, looking up from the list; “and what is 
that?” 

“The Miss Dempsters!” cried her stepmother, in a tone which 
might have touched the hardest heart. That was a question indeed. 
The Miss Dempsters would have to be asked for the loan of their 
forks and spoons, and their large lamp, and both the silver candle- 
sticks. How, after that, would it be possible to leave them out? And 
how put them ih? And how provide two other men to balance the 


32 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


old ladies? Such questions as these are enough to turn any worn- 
an’s hair gray, as Mrs. Ogilvie said. 

Then, when that was settled, there came the bill of fare. The en- 
tire village knew days before what there was to be for dinner, and 
about the fish that was sent for from Dumfries, and did not turn 
out all that could have been wished, so that at the last moment a 
mere common salmon from Solway, a thing made no account of, 
had to be put in the pot. 

Mrs. Moffatt, at the shop, had a sight of the pastry, which was 
“just remarkable” she said. And a dozen little groups were ad- 
mitted on the afternoon of the great day to see the table set out, all 
covered with fiowers, with the napkins like snowy turrets round the 
edge, and the silver and crystal shining. The Ogilvies possessed an 
epergne won at some racing meeting long before, which was a great 
work of art, all in frosted silver, a huntsman standing between a 
leash of dogs ; and this, with the Dempster candlesticks on each side, 
made a brilliant centre. And the schoolmaster recorded afterwards, 
amid his notes of the rainfall and other interesting pieces of in- 
formation, that the fine smell of the cooking came as far as the 
school, and distracted the bairns at their lessons, causing that melt- 
ing sensation in the jaws which is described by the country-folk as 
watering of the mouth. 

Effie was busy all the morning with the flowers, with writing out 
little cards for the guests’ names, and other such ornamental arrange- 
ments. 

Glen, confused in his mind and full of curiosity, followed her 
about everywhere, softly waving his great tail like a fan, sweep- 
ing off a light article here and there from the crowded tables, and 
asking in his superior, doggish way, what all this fuss and excite- 
ment (which he rather enjoyed on the whole) was about? till some- 
body sent him away with a kick and an adjuration as being “in 
everybody’s gait” — which was a sad end to his impartial and in- 
terested spectatorship. 

Little Rory toddled at his sister’s heels on the same errand, but 
could not be kicked like Glen — and altogether there was a great deal 
of confusion. But you never would have divined this when Mrs. 
Ogilvie came sweeping down-stairs in her pink silk, as if the din- 
ner had all been arranged by her major-domo, and she had never 
argued with the cook in her life, 


EPFEE OGILVIE. 


33 


It may easily be supposed that the members of the family had 
little time to compare notes while their guests remained. And it wa(S 
not till the last carriage had rolled away and the lady of the house 
had made her last smiling protestation that it was still just ridicu- 
lously early, that this meritorious woman threw herself into her favor- 
ite corner of the sofa, with a profound sigh of pleasure and relief. 

“Well!” she said, and repeated that long-drawn breath of satis- 
faction. “Well! it’s been a terrible trouble; but I cannot say but 
I’m thoroughly content and pleased now that it’s past.” 

To this her husband, standing in front of the expiring fire (for 
even in August a little fire in the evening is not inappropriate on the 
Border), replied with a suppressed growl. 

“ You’re easy pleased,” he said, “ but why ye should take all this 
trouble to fill people with good things, as the Scripture says, that 
are not hungry and don’t want them — ” 

“ Oh, Kobert, just you hold your peace! You’re always very well 
pleased to go out to your dinner. And as for the Allonby family, 
it was a clear duty. When you speak of Scripture you surely for- 
get that we’re bidden to entertain strangers unawares. No, that’s 
not just right, it’s angels we entertain unawares.” 

“There’s no angels in that house, or I am mistaken,” said Mr. 
Ogilvie. 

“Well, there’s two very well-dressed girls, which is the nearest 
to it; and there’s another person, that may turn out even more im- 
portant.” 

“And who may that be?” 

“Whisht,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, holding up a finger of admonition as 
the others approached. “ Well, Uncle John! And Effie, come you 
here and rest. Poor thing, you’re done out. Now I would like to 
have your frank opinion. Mine is that though it took a great deal 
of trouble, it’s been a great success.” 

“ The salmon was excellent,” said Mr. Moubray 

“ And the table looked very pretty.” 

“ And yon grouse were not bad at all.” 

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, throwing up her hands, '‘ye tiresome 
people! Am I thinking of the salmon or the grouse; was there any 
chance they would be bad in 7ny house? I am meaning the party: 
and my opinion is that everybody was just very well pleased, and 
that everything went off to a wish.” 

3 


34 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“ That woman Lady Smith has a tongue that would deave a mil- 
ler,” said the master of the house. “ I request you will put her at 
a distance from me, Janet, if she ever dines here again.” 

“ And what will you do when she asks us?” cried his wife. “If 
she gives you anything but her right hand — my word! but you will 
be ill pleased.” 

To this argument her husband had no reply handy, and after a 
moment she resumed, 

“ I am very glad to see you are going to be such friends with the 
Diroms, Effie ; they’re fine girls. Miss Doris, as they call her, might 
have had her dress a little higher, but no doubt that’s the fault of 
those grand dressmakers that will have their own way. But the 
one I like is Mr. Fred. He is a very fine lad; he takes nothing 
upon him.” 

“ What should he take upon him? He’s nothing or nobody, but 
only a rich man’s son.” 

“Robert, you are just the most bigoted, inconsiderate person! 
Well, I think it’s very difficult when you are just a rich person to be 
modest and young like yon. If you are a young duke, that’s differ- 
ent; but to have nothing but money to stand upon — and not to stand 
upon that — ” 

“It is very well said,” said Uncle John, making her a bow. 
“There’s both charity and observation in what Mrs. Ogilvie says.” 

“Is there not?” cried the lady, in a fiush of pleasure. “ Oh, no, 
I’m not meaning it is clever of me; but when a young man has 
nothing else, and is just pleasant, and never seems to mind, but 
singles out a bit little thing of a girl in a white frock — ” 

This made them all look at Effie, who as yet said nothing. She 
was leaning back in the other corner, tired yet flushed with the 
pleasure and novelty of finding herself so important a person. Her 
white frock was very simple, but yet it was the best she had ever 
had; and never before had Effie been “singled out,” as her step- 
mother said. The dinner-party was a great event to her. Nothing 
so important had occurred before, nothing in which she herself had 
been so prominent. A pretty flush of color came over her face. 

There had been a great deal in Fred Dirom’s eyes which was 
quite new, mysterious, and even, in its novelty, delightful to Effie. 
She could scarcely help laughing at the recollection, and yet it made 
a warmth about her heart, To be flattered in that silent way— not 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


35 


by any mere compliment, but by the homage of a pair of eloquent 
eyes — is startling, strange, never unsweet to a girl. It is a more 
subtle coming of age than any birthday can bring. It shows that 
she has passed out of the band of little girls into that of those 
young princesses whom all the poets have combined to praise. This 
first sensation of the awakening consciousness has something exqui- 
site in it not to be put into words. 

Her blush grew deeper as she saw the group round all looking at 
her — her stepmother with a laugh of satisfaction, her father with a 
glance in which the usual drawing together of his shaggy eyebrows 
was a very poor simulation of a frown, and Uncle John with a 
liquid look of tender sympathy not unmingled with tender ridicule 
and full of love withal. 

“Why do you all look at me like that?” Effie cried, to throw off 
the growing embarrassment. “I am not the only -one that had a 
white frock.” 

“Well, I would not call yon a white frock that was drooping off 
Doris Dirom’s shoulders,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “but we’ll say no 
more about that. So far as I could see, everybody was pleased; 
and they stayed a most unconscionable time. Bless me! it’s past 
eleven o’clock. A little license may always be given on a great oc- 
casion; but though it’s a pleasure to talk it all over, and everything 
has been just a great success, I think, Effie, you should go to your 
bed. It’s later than your ordinary, and you have been about the 
most of the day. Good-night, my dear. You looked very nice, and 
your flowers were just beautiful: everybody was speaking of them, 
and I gave the credit where it was due.” 

“It is time for me to go too,’' said Uncle John. 

“Oh, wait a moment.” Mrs. Ogilvie waited till Effie had gone 
out of the room with her candle, very tired, very happy, and glad 
to get away from so much embarrassing observation. The step- 
mother waited a little, until all was safe, and then she gave vent to 
the suppressed triumph. 

“You will just mark my words, you two gentlemen,” she cried. 
“ They have met but three times — once when we called, once when 
they were playing their tennis, or whatever they call it— and to- 
night; but if Effie is not Mrs. Fred Dirom before six months are out 
it will be her own fault.” 

“Fred Fiddlestick!” cried Mr. Ogilvie. “You’re just a silly 


36 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


woman, thinking of nothing but love and marriages. I’ll have no 
more of that.” 

“ If I’m a silly woman, there’s not far off from here a sillier man,” 
said Mrs. Ogilvie. “You’ll have to hear a great deal more of it. 
And if you do not see all the advantages, and the grand thing it 
would be for Effie to have such a settlement so young—” 

“ There was one at your hand if you had wanted to get rid of her, 
much younger.” 

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, clasping her hands together, “that 
men, who are always said to be the cleverest and the wisest, should 
be so slow at the uptake ! Any woman would understand — but you, 
that are her father! The one that was at my hand, as you say, 
what was it? A long-leggit lad in a marching regiment! with not 
enough to keep him a horse, let alone a wife. That would have been 
a bonny business! that would have been taking a mother’s care of 
Effie! I am thankful her mother cannot hear ye. But Fred Dirom 
is very different — the only son of a very rich man. And no doubt 
the father, who perhaps is not exactly made for society, would give 
them Allonby, and set them up. That is what my heart is set on 
for Effie. I have always said, I will never, perhaps, have a grown- 
up daughter of my own. ” 

“lam sure,” said Mr. Moubray, “you have nothing but kindness 
in your heart.” 

“You mean I am nothing but a well-intentioned haverel,” said 
Mrs, Ogilvie, with a laugh. “But you’ll see that I’m more than 
that. Effie! bless me, what a start you gave me! I thought by this 
time that you were in your bed.” 

Effie had come back to the drawing-room upon some trifling er- 
rand. She stood there for a moment, her candle in her hand, her 
fair head still decked with the rose which had been its only orna- 
ment. The light threw a little flickering illumination upon her face, 
for her stepmother, always thrifty, had already extinguished one of 
the lamps. Mr. Moubray looked with eyes full of tender pity upon 
the young figure in the doorway, standing, hesitating, upon the verge 
of a world unknown. He had no mind for any further discussion. 
He followed her out when she had carried off the gloves and little 
ornaments which she had left behind, and stood with her a moment 
in the hall to say good-night. 

“ My little Effie,” he said, “an evening like this is little to us, but 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


37 


there is no saying what it may be to you. I think it has brought 
new thoughts already, to judge by your face.” 

She looked up at him startled, with her color rising. “No, Uncle 
John,” she answered, with the natural self-defence of youth; then 
paused to inquire, after her denial, “ What kind of new thoughts?” 

He stooped over her to kiss her, with his hand upon her shoulder. 

“ We’ll not inquire too far,” he said. “ Nothing but novelty, my 
dear, and the rising of the tide.” 

Etfie opened the door for him, letting in the fresh sweep of the 
night-wind, which came so clear and keen over the moors, and the 
twinkle of the stars looking down from the great vault of dark-blue 
sk5^ The world seemed to widen out round them, with the opening 
of that door, which let in all the silence and hush of the deep-breath- 
ing night. She put her candle upon the table and came out with 
him, her delicate being thrilling to the influence of the sweet, full air 
which embraced her round and round. 

“ Oh, Uncle John, what a night! to think we should shut our- 
selves up in little dull rooms with all this shining outside the 
door!” 

“We are but frail human creatures, Etfie, though we have big 
souls; the dull rooms are best for us at this hour of the night.” 

‘ ‘ I would like to walk with you down among the trees. I would 
like to go down the dene and hear the water rushing, but not to 
Allonby churchyard.” 

“No, nor to Allonby at all, Etfie. Take time, my bonny dear, let 
no one hasten your thoughts. Come, I cannot have you out here in 
the night in your white frock. You look like a little ghost; and 
what would Mrs. Ogilvie say to me if you caught cold just at this 
crisis of affairs?” 

He stopped to laugh softly, but put his arm round her, and led her 
back within the door. 

“ The night is bonny and the air is fresh, but home and shelter 
are the best. Good-night, and God bless my little Effle,” he said. 

The people in the village, whose minds were now relieved from 
the strain of counting all the carriages, and were going to sleep calm- 
ly in the certainty that everybody was gone, heard his firm, slow 
step going past, and knew it was the minister, who would naturally 
be the last to go home. They took a pleasure in hearing him pass, 
and the children, who were still awake, felt a protection in the fact 


38 


EFFEE OGILVIE. 


that he was there, going leisurely along the road, sure to keep away 
any ghost or robber that might be lurking in the stillness of the 
night. His very step was full of thought. 

It was pleasant to him, without any sad work in hand, to walk 
through the little street between the sleeping houses, saying a bless- 
ing upon the sleepers as he passed. Usually when he was out so 
late, it was on his way to some sick-bed to minister to the troubled or 
the dying. He enjoyed to-night the exemption and the leisure, and 
with a smile in his eyes looked from the light in Dr. Jardine’s window, 
within which the doctor was no doubt smoking a comfortable pipe 
before he went to bed, to the little inquisitive glimmer higher up in 
Rosebank, where the old ladies were laying aside their old finery 
and talking over the party. He passed between them with a hu- 
morous consciousness of their antagonism which did not disturb the 
general peace. 

The stars shone with a little frost in their brightness, though it 
was but August; the night-air blew fresh in his face; the village, 
with all its windows and eyelids closed, slept deep in the silence of 
the night. “ God bless them all— but above all Effie,’’ he repeated, 
smiling to himself. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The Diroms belonged to a class now very common in England, 
the class of very rich people without any antecedents or responsibil- 
ities, which it is so difficult to classify or lay hold of, and which nei- 
ther the authorities of society nor the moralist have yet fully com- 
prehended. They had a great deal of money, which is popularly 
recognized to be power, and they owed it to nobody but them- 
selves. 

They owed nothing to anybody. They had no^estates to keep up; 
no poor people depended upon them; the clerks and porters at the 
ofiice were not to call dependants, though probably, out of good-nat- 
ure, when they were ill or trouble arose in their families, if it happened 
to come under the notice of the head of the firm, he would fling them 
a little money, perhaps with an admonition, perhaps with a joke. 
But this was pure liberality, generosity as his friends called it. He 
had nothing to “ keep up.” 

Even the sick gamekeeper who had been hurt by a fall, though he 
was in the new tenant’s service, was Lady Allonby’s servant, and it 
was she who had to support his family while he was ill. The rich 
people were responsible for nobody. If they were kind — and they 
were not unkind — it was all to their credit, for they had no duty to 
any one. 

This was how the head of the house considered his position. “ I 
don’t know anything about your land burdens, your feudal burdens,” 
he would say; “ money is what has made me. I pay taxes enough, 
I hope; but I’ve got no sentimental taxes to pay, and I won’t have 
anything to say to such rubbish. I am a working man myself, just 
like the rest. If these fellows will take care of their own business 
as I did, they will get on themselves as I have done, and want noth- 
ing from anybody. I’ve no call even to ‘ keep up ’ my family; they 
ought to be working for themselves, as I was at their age. If I do, 
it’s because the girls and their mother are too many for me, and I 
have to yield to their prejudices.” 


40 


EFFIE OGIL'VTE. 


These were Mr. Dirom’s principles; but he threw about his money 
very liberally all the same, giving large subscriptions, with a deter- 
mination to stand at the head of the list when he was on it at all, 
and an inclination to twit the others who did not give so liberally 
with their stinginess; “ What is the use of making bones of it?” he 
said, with a flourish, to Sir John, who was well known to be in 
straightened circumstances; “ I just draw a check for flve hundred 
and the thing’s done.” 

Sir John could no more have drawn a check for five hundred than 
he could have flown, and Mr. Dirom knew it; and the knowledge 
gave an edge to his pleasure. Sir John’s twenty-five pounds was, in 
reality, a much larger contribution than Mr Dirom’s five hundred, 
but the public did not think of this. The public said that Sir John 
gave the twenty-five because he could not help it, because his posi- 
tion demanded it; but Mr. Dirom’s five hundred took away the 
breath of the spectators. It was more than liberal ; it was magnifi- 
cent. 

Mr. Dirom was a man who wore white waistcoats, and large, well- 
blown roses in his coat He swaggered, without knowing it, in his 
walk, and in his speech, wherever he was visible. The young peo- 
ple were better bred, and were very conscious of those imperfections. 
They preferred, indeed, that he should not “ trouble,” as they said, 
to come home, especially to come to the country when business pre- 
vented. There was no occasion for papa to “ trouble.” Fred could 
take his place if he was detained in town. 

In this way they showed a great deal of tender consideration for 
their father’s engagements. Perhaps he was deceived by it, per- 
haps not; no one could tell. He took his own way absolutely, ap- 
pearing when it suited him, and when it did not suit him leaving 
them to their own devices. Allonby was too far off for him, too 
distant from town; though he was quite willing to be known as the 
occupier of so handsome a “ place.” He came down for the first of 
the shooting, which is the right thing in the city, but afterwards did 
not trouble his family much with his presence, which was satisfac- 
tory to everybody concerned. It was not known exactly what Mr. 
Dirom had risen from, but it was low enough to make his present 
elevation wonderful, and to give that double zest to wealth which 
makes the self-made man happy. 

Mrs. Dirom was of a different order. She was two generations at 


EFFIE OGTLVIE. 


41 


least from the beginning of her family, and she too, though in a less 
degree than her children, felt that her husband’s manners left some- 
thing to be desired. He had helped himself up by her means, she 
having been, as in the primitive legend, of the class of the master’s 
daughters ; at least her father was the head of the firm under which 
Dirom had begun to “ make his way.” But neither was she quite 
up to the mark. 

“Mamma is dreadfully middle-class,” the girls said. In some re- 
spects that is worse than the lower class. It made her a little timid 
and doubtful of her position, which her husband never was. None 
of these things affected the young people; they had received “ every 
advantage.” 

Their father’s wealth was supposed to be immense, and when 
wealth is immense it penetrates everywhere, A moderate fortune is 
worth very little in a social point of view, but a great fortune opens 
every door. 

The elder brother, who never came to Allonby, who never went 
near the business, who had been portioned off contemptuously by 
his father, as if he had been a girl (and scorn could not go further), 
had married an earl’s daughter, and, more than that, had got her 
off the very steps of the throne, for she had been a maid of honor. 
He was the most refined and cultivated individual in the world, with 
one of the most lovely houses in London, and everything about him 
artistic to the last degree. It was with difficulty that he put up 
with his father at all. Still, for the sake of his little boy, he ac- 
knowledged the relationship from time to time. 

As for Fred and his sisters, they have already been made known 
to the reader. Fred was by way of being “in the business,” and 
went down to the office three or four times in the week when he 
was in town. But what he wished to be was an artist. He painted 
more or less, he modelled, he had a studio of his own in the midst 
of one of the special artistic quarters, and retired there to work, as 
he said, whenever the light was good. 

For his part Fred aspired to be a Bohemian, and did everything 
he could in a virtuous way to carry out his intention. He scorned 
money, or thought he did, while enjoying every luxury it could pro- 
cure. If he could have found a beautiful milkmaid or farm girl 
with anything like the Rossetti type of countenance he would have 
married her off-hand; but then beauties of that description are rare. 


42 


EFPIE OGILVTE. 


The country lasses on the Border were all of too cheerful a type. 
But he had fully made up his mind that when the right woman ap- 
peared no question of money or ambition should be allowed to inter- 
fere between him and his inclinations. 

“You may say what you will,” he said to his sisters, “and I al- 
low my principles would not answer with girls. You have nothing 
else to look to, to get on in the world. But a man can take that 
sort of thing in his own hands, and if one gets beauty, that’s enough. 
It is more distinetion than anything else. I shall insist upon beauty, 
but nothing more.” 

“ It all depends on what you call beauty,” said Miss Phyllis. 
“You can make anything beauty if you stand by it and swear to it. 
Marrying a painter isn’t at all a bad way. He paints you over and 
over again till you get recognized as a type, and then it doesn’t mat- 
ter what other people say.” 

“You can’t call Effie a type,” said the young lady who called 
herself Doris — her name in fact was a more humble one; but then 
not even the Herald’s College has anything to do with Christian 
names. 

“ She may not be a type — but if you had seen her as I did in the 
half-light, coming out gradually as one’s eyes got used to it, like 
something developing in a camera — Jove! She was like a Burne- 
Jones — not strong enough for the blessed Damozel or that sort of 
thing, but sad and sweet like — like—” Fred paused for a simile — 
“like a hopeless maiden in a procession winding down endless 
stairs, or — standing about in the wet, or — If she had not been 
dressed in nineteenth-century costume.” 

“He calls that nineteenth-century costume!” said Phyllis, with a 
mixture of sympathy and scorn. 

“Poor Effie is not dressed at all,” said the other sister. “ She 
has clothes on, that is all ; but I could make her look very nice if she 
were in my hands. She has a pretty little figure, not spoiled at all 
— not too solid, like most country girls, but just enough to drape a 
pretty fiowing stuff or soft muslin upon. I should turn her out 
that you would not know her if she trusted herself to me.” 

“For goodness’ sake, let her alone,” cried Fred; “don’t make a 
trollop of my little maiden. Her little stiffness suits her. I like her 
just so, in her white frock.” 

“ You should have been born a milliner. Dor.” 


EFFtE OGILVIE. 


43 


"Perhaps I was— and papa’s money has thwarted nature. If 
he should ever lose it all, which I suppose is on the cards — ” 

"Oh, very much on the cards,” said Fred. 

"There is always a smash some time or other in a great commer- 
cial concern.” 

" What fun!” said Miss Phyllis. 

" Then I should set up directly. The sisters Dirom, millinefs and 
dressmakers. It would be exceedingly amusing, and we should make 
a great fortune — all good dressmakers do.” 

“ It would be very amiable of you. Dor, to call your firm the sis- 
ters Dirom— for I should be of no use. I shall spend the fortune if 
you please, but I couldn’t help in any other way.” 

" Oh, yes, you could. You will marry, and have all your things 
from me. I should dress you beautifully, and you would be the 
most delightful advertisement. Of course you would not have any 
false pride. You would say to your duchesses, I got this from my 
sister. She is the only possible dressmaker nowadays.” 

"False pride — oh, I hope not! It would be quite a distinction — 
everybody would go. You could set up afternoon teas, and let 
them try on all your things. It would be delightful. But papa 
will not come to grief, he is too well backed up,” said Phyllis, with 
a sigh. 

"If I do not marry next season, I shall not wait for the catas- 
trophe,” said Doris. "Perhaps if the opposition comes in we might 
coax Lord Pantry to get me appointed milliner to the queen. If 
her majesty had once a dress from me, she would never look at 
Worth more.” 

"Worth!” said Phyllis, throwing up her hands in mild but indig- 
nant amazement. 

" Well, then, Waley, or whatever you call him. Worth is a mere 
symbol,” said Doris, with philosophical calm. "How I should like 
it! but if one marries, one’s husband’s family and all kinds of im- 
possible people interfere. ” 

"You had better marry, you girls,” said Fred; "it is much your 
best chance. Wipe out the governor with a title. That’s what I 
should do if I could. But unfortunately I can’t— the finest of heir- 
esses does not communicate her family honors, more’s the pity. I 
shall always be Fred Dirom, if I were to marry a duchess. But an art- 
ist’s antecedents don’t matter. Fortunately he makes his own way.” 


44 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“ Fred,” said his mother, coming in, “I wish you would not talk 
of yourself as an artist, dear. Papa does not like it. He indulges 
you all a great deal, but there are some things that don’t please him 
at all.” 

“Quite unreasonably, mother dear,” said Fred, who was a good 
son, and very kind to her on the whole. “Most of the fellows I 
know in that line are much better born than I am. Gentlemen’s 
sons, most of them.” 

“Oh, Fred!” said Mrs. Dirom, with eyes of deep reproach. She 
added, in a tremulous voice, “My grandfather had a great deal of 
property in the country. He had indeed, I assure you, although you 
think we have nothing but money. And if that does not make a 
gentleman, what does?” 

“What indeed?” said her son; but he made no further reply. 
And the sisters interposed. 

“We were talking of what we shall all do in case the firm should 
come to grief, and all the money be lost.” 

“ Oh, girls!” Mrs. Dirom started violently and put her hand to her 
heart. “Fred! you don’t mean to say that there are rumors in the 
city, or a word whispered — ” 

“Not when I heard last — but then I have not been in the city for 
a month. That reminds me,” said Fred, “that really I ought to put 
in an appearance — just once in a way.” 

“ You mean you want to have a run to town?” said Doris. 

“Yes, dear,” said his mother, “go if you think you could be of 
any use. Oh, you don’t know what it is you are talking of so light- 
ly. I could tell you things — Oh, Fred, if you think there is any- 
thing going on, any danger — ” 

“Nothing of the sort,” he said, with a laugh. “We were only 
wondering what we should be good for, mother — not much, I be- 
lieve. I might perhaps draw for the Oraphic fancy pictures of bat- 
tles and that sort of thing; or, if the worst came to the worst, there 
is the Police NewsP 

“You have both got vocations, ” said Phyllis. “ It is fine for you. 
You know what to do, you two. But I can do nothing; I should 
have to marry.” She spoke with a languid emphasis as of capitals, 
in her speech. 

“Oh, children!” cried Mrs. Dirom, “what are you thinking of? 
You think all that is clever, but it does not seem clever to me. It is 


EFFLE OGILVIE. 


45 


just the dreadful thing in business that one day you may be up at 
the top of the tree, and next morning — ” 

“ Nowhere!” said Fred, with a burlesque groan. And then they 
all laughed. The anxious middle-class mother looked at them as the 
hen of the proverb looks at her ducklings. Silly children I what did 
they know about it? She could have cried in vexation and distress. 

“You laugh,” she said, “but you would not laugh if you knew as 
much as I do. The very name of such a thing is unlucky. 1 
wouldn’t let myself think of it lest it should bring harm. Things 
may be quite right, and I hope and believe they are quite right; but 
if there was so much as a whisper on the Exchange tliat his children 
— his own children — had been joking on the subject. Oh, a whisper, 
that’s enough 1” 

The young people were not in the least impressed by what she 
said — they had not been brought up in her sphere. That alarm for 
exposure, that dread of a catastrophe, which w*as strong in her bosom, 
had no response in theirs.. They had no more understanding of pov- 
erty than of Paradise — and to the girls in particular, the idea of a 
great event, a matter of much noise and commotion, to be followed 
by new enchanting freedom and the possibilities of adventure, was 
really “fun,” as they said. They were not afraid of being dropped 
by their friends. 

Society has undergone a change in this respect. A young lady 
turned into a fashionable dressmaker would be the most delightful 
of lions ; all her acquaintances would crowd round her. She would 
be celebrated as “a noble girl” by the serious, and as due by the 
fast. 

Doris looked forward to the possibility with a delightful percep- 
tion of all the advantages that were in it. It was more exciting 
than the other expedient of marrying, which was all that, in the 
poverty of her invention, occurred to Phyllis. They made very 
merry, while their mother trembled with an alarm for which there 
was no apparent foundation. She was nervous, which is always a 
ready explanation of a woman’s troubles and fears. 

There was, in fact, no foundation whatever for any alarm. Never 
had the credit of Dirom, Dirom, & Company, stood higher. There 
was no cloud, even so big as a finger, upon the sky. 

Mr. Dirom himself, though his children were ashamed of him, was 
not without acceptance in society. In his faithfulness tq business, 


46 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


staying in town in September, he had a choice of fine houses in 
which to make those little visits from Saturday to Monday which 
are so pleasant; and great ladies who had daughters inquired ten- 
derly about Fred, and learned with the profoundest interest that it 
was he who was the Prince of Wales, the heir-apparent of the house — 
he, and not Jack the married son, who would have nothing to say to 
the business. 

When Fred paid a flying visit to town to “ look up the governor,” 
as he said, and see what was going on, he too was overwhelmed with 
invitations from Saturday to Monday. And though he was modest 
enough, he was very well aware that he would not be refused, as a 
son-in-law, by some of the finest people in England. 

That he was not a little dazzled by the perception it would be 
wrong to say — and the young Lady Marys in English country-houses 
are very fair and sweet. But now there would glide before him 
wherever he went the apparition of Etfie in her white frock. 

Why should he have thought of Effie, a mere country girl, yet still 
a country gentlewoman without the piquancy of a milkmaid or a 
nursery governess? But who can fathom these mysteries? No 
blooming beauty of the fields had come in Fred’s way, though he 
had piously invoked all the gods to send him such a one ; but Effie, 
who was scarcely a type at all — Effie, who was only a humble repre- 
sentative of fair maidenhood, not so perfect, perhaps, not so well 
dressed, not so beautiful as many of her kind. 

Effie had come across his path, and henceforward went with him 
in spirit wherever he went. Curious accident of human fate! To 
think that Mr. Dirom’s money, and Fred’s accomplishments, and 
their position in society and in the city, all things which might have 
made happy a duke’s daughter, were to be laid at the careless feet of 
little Effie Ogilvie! 

If she had been a milkmaid the wonder would have been less 
great. 


CHAPTER VII. 


And for all these things Effie cared nothing. This forms always 
a tragic element in the most ordinary love-making, where one gives 
what the other does not appreciate, or will not accept, yet the giver 
cannot be persuaded to withdraw the gift, or to follow the impulse 
of that natural resentment which comes from kindness disdained. 

There was nothing tragical, however, in the present circumstances, 
which were largely composed of lawn-tennis at Allonby, afternoon 
tea in the dimness of an unnecessarily shaded room, or walks along 
the side of the little stream. When Efiie came for the favorite after- 
noon game, the sisters and their brother would escort her home, 
sometimes all the way, sometimes only as far as the little churchyard 
where the path struck off and climbed the high river-bank. 

Nothing could be more pleasant than this walk. The days were 
often gray and dim ; but the walkers were young, and not too thinly 
clad ; the damp in the air did not affect them, and the breezes stirred 
their veins. The stream was small but lively, brown, full of golden 
lights. So far as the park went the bank was low on the Allonby 
side, though on the other picturesque, with rising cliffs and a screen 
of trees. In the lower hollows of these cliffs the red of the rowan 
berries and the graceful bunches of the barberry anticipated the 
autumnal tints, and waving bracken below, and a host of tiny ferns 
in every crevice, gave an air of luxuriance. The grass was doubly 
green with that emerald brightness which comes from damp, and 
when the sun shone everything lighted up with almost an artificial 
glow of excessive color, greenness, and growth. The little party 
would stroll along filling the quiet with their young voices, putting 
even the birds to silence. 

But it was not Effie who talked. She was the audience, sometimes 
a little, shocked, sometimes bewildered, but always amused more or 
less; wondering at them, at their cleverness, at their simplicity, at 
what the country girl thought their ignorance, and at what she knew 
to be their superior wisdom. 


48 


EFFEE OGILVIE. 


Fre^ too was remarkable on these points, but not so remarkable as 
his sisters; and he did not talk so much. He walked when he could 
by ElRe’s side, and made little remarks to her, which Effle accounted 
for by the conviction that he was very polite, and thought it right to 
show her those regards which were due to a young lady. She lent 
but a dull ear to what he said, and gave her chief attention to Phyl- 
lis and Doris, whose talk was more wonderful than anything else 
that Effie knew. 

“ It is curious,” Miss Phyllis said, “ that there never are two pict- 
uresque banks to a river. Nature provides herself a theatre, don’t 
you know. Here are we in the auditorium.” 

“ Only there is nothing to hear,” said Doris, “except the birds — 
well, that’s something. But music over there would have a line 
effect. It would be rather nice to try it, if it ever was warm 
enough here for an open-air party. You could have the- orchestra 
hidden: the strings there, the wind instruments here, don’t you 
see, violas in the foreground, and the big ’cello booming out of that 
juniper.” 

“ By Jove!” cried Fred, from where he strolled behind with Effle, 
“how astounded the blackbirds would be.” 

“It would be interesting to know what they thought. Now, what 
do you suppose they would do? Stop and listen? or else be struck 
by the force of the circumstances and set up an opposition?” 

“Burst their little throats against the strings.” 

“Or be deafened with your vulgar trombones. Fancy a brass 
band on the side of the wan water!” 

“It would be very nice, though,” said Doris. “I said nothing 
about trombones. It would be quite eightGenth-century. And here 
on the lawn we could sit and drink syllabubs. What are syllabubs? 
Probably most people would prefer tea. Effle, what do you think? 
you never say a word. Shall we have a garden party, and music 
over there under the cliff?” 

Effle had walked on softly, taking in everything with a mingled 
sense of admiration and ridicule. She was quite apart, a spectator, 
listening to the artificial talk about nothing at all, the conversation 
made up with a distinct idea of being brilliant and interesting, which 
yet was natural enough to these young people, themselves artificial, 
who made up their talk as they made up their life, out of nothing. 
Effle laughed within herself with involuntary criticism, yet was half 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


49 


impressed at the same time, feeling that it was like something out of 
a book. 

“ Oh, me?” she said, in surprise at being eonsulted. “I have not 
any opinion, indeed. I never thought of it at all.” 

“Then think now, and let us hear; for you should know best how 
the people here would like it.” 

“^Don’t you see. Dor, that she thinks us very silly, and would not 
talli such nonsense as we are talking for the world? There is no 
sense in it, and Effie is full of sense.” 

“Miss Ogilvie has both sense and sympathy,” said Fred. 

This discussion over her alarmed Effie. She grew red and pale; 
half affronted, half pleased, wholly shy and uncomfortable. 

“No,” she said, “I couldn’t talk like you. I never talk except 
when — except when — I have got something to say; that is, of course, 
I mean something that is— something — not merely out of my head, 
like you. I am not clever enough for that.” 

“Is she making fun of us, Phyll?” 

“I’ think so, Dor. She is fact, and we are— well, what are we? 
not fiction altogether, because we’re real enough in flesh and blood.” 

Effie was moved to defend herself. 

“You are like two young ladies in a book,” she said, “and I am 
just a girl like anybody else. I say How do you do? and Do you 
think it will be a fine day? or I can tell you if anything has happened 
in the village, and that Dr. Jardine was called away this morning to 
Fairyknowe, so that somebody there must be ill. But you make up 
what is very nice to listen to, and yet it makes one laugh, because it 
is about nothing at all.” 

“ That is quite true,” said Doris; “ that is our way. We don’t go 
in for fact. We belong to the speculative side. We have nothing 
real to do, so we have to imagine things to talk about.” 

“And I hope you think we do it well,” said Phyllis, with a 
laugh. 

Effie was encouraged to laugh too ; but her feelings were very com- 
plicated; she "was respectful and yet she was a little contemptuous. 
It was all new to her, and out of her experience; yet the great house, 
the darkened rooms, the luxury and ease, the way in which life went 
on, apparently without any effort on the part of this cluster of peo- 
ple, who had everything they wanted without even the trouble of 
asking for it, as in a fairy tale, harmonized with the artificial talk, 
4 


50 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


the speculations, the studies which were entirely voluntary, without 
any use as Effie thought, without any call for them. 

She herself was not indeed compelled to work as poor girls were, 
as governesses were, even as the daughters of people within her own 
range, who made their own dresses, and taught their little brothers 
and sisters, had to do. But still there were certain needs which she 
supplied, and cases in which she had a necessary office to fulfil. 
There were the flowers for instance. Old Pirie always brought her 
in a basketful whenever she wanted them; but if Pirie had to be 
trusted to arrange the flowers! 

In Allonby, however, even that was done; the vases refilled them- 
selves somehow, as if by help of the fairies; the table was always 
magnificent, but nobody knew when it was done or who did it — no- 
body, that is, of the family. Phyllis and Doris decided, it was to be 
supposed, what they should wear, but that was all the trouble they 
took even about their dress. Numbers of men and women worked 
in the background to provide for all their wants, but they them- 
selves had nothing to do with it. And they talked as they lived. 

Effie did not put all this into words, but she perceived it, by means 
of a little humorous perception which was in her eyes though she did 
not know it. And though they were so much finer than she was, 
knew so much more, and possessed so much more, yet these young 
ladies were as the comedians of life to little Effie, performing their 
drawing-room drama for her amusement. They talked over the lit- 
tle churchyard which lay at the opening of the glen in the same 
way. 

“The Americans have not found out Allonby yet,” they said to 
each other. “We must ask Miss Greenwood up here— or, oh! let us 
have Henry Holland. But no, he will not go into any raptures. He 
has gone through everything in that way. He is more blase than the 
most blase of Englishmen; let us have some one fresh. How they 
will hang over the Hie jacet ! And we must have some one who 
knows the ballad. Do you know the ballad, Effie? but perhaps you 
never heard of it, as you were born here.” 

“ Do you mean about Helen?” said Effie. And in her shyness she 
grew red, up to her hair. 

‘“Oh, Helen fair beyond compare. 

I’ll make a garland of thy hair, 

Shull bind my heart forevef mair,’ ” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


51 


“How delightful 1 the rural muse, the very genius of the country. 
Effie, you shall recite it to us standing by the stone with a shepherd's 
maud thrown over you, and that sweet Scotch accent, which is sim- 
ply delicious.” 

“And the blush, dear, just as it is,” said Phyllis, clapping her 
hands softly; “you will have the most enormous success.” 

“Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Effie, her soft color 
of shyness and resentment turning into the hot red of shame. “I 
wish you would not try to make a fool of me, as well as of the 
place.” 

“ To make a fool of you! Don’t be angry, Effie, the phrase is en- 
chanting. Make a fool — that is Scotch too. You know I am begin- 
ning to make a collection of Scoticisms; they are one nicer than an- 
other. I only wish I had the accent and the voice.” 

“And the blush. Dor; it would not be half so effective without 
that. Could you pick up those little particulars which Effie doesn’t 
appreciate, with your dramatic instinct into the bargain — ” 

“ Should I be able to recite Fair Helen as well as Effie? Oh, no,” 
said Doris, and she began, “ Oh, Helen fair beyond compare,” with 
an imitation of that accent which Effie fondly hoped she was free of, 
which entirely overcame the girl’s self-control. Her blush grew hot- 
ter and hotter till she felt herself fiery red with anger, and unable to 
bear any more. 

“If I spoke like that,” she cried, “I should be ashamed ever to 
open my mouth !” Then she added, with a wave of her hand, “ Good- 
bye, I am going home,” for she could not trust herself further. 

“Oh, Effie, Effie! Why, goodness, tlie child’s offended,” cried 
Phyllis. 

“ And I had just caught her tone!” said the other. 

Then they both turned upon Fred. ‘ ‘ Why don’t you go after her? 
Why don’t you catch her up? Why do you stand there staring?” 

“ Why are you both so— disagreeable?” cried Fred, who had hur- 
ried on while they spoke, and turned back to fiing at them this very 
innocent missile as he ran; nothing stronger occurred to him to say. 
He had not the vocabulary of his sisters. They watched him while 
he rushed along and saw him overtake the little fugitive. It was a 
sight which interested these two young ladies. They became con- 
templative spectators once more. 

“J wonder if he will know what to say?” Doris in(^uired of her- 


62 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


self. “ It should be a capital opportunity for Fred if he knows how 
to take advantage of it. He ought to throw us both overboard at 
once, and say we were a couple of idiots, who did not know what 
we were talking about. I should, in Fred’s place. ” 

“Yes, I suppose that would be the right way; but a man does 
naturally throw over his sisters,” said Phyllis. “You need not be 
afraid. It was fine to see her blaze up. Fury is not pretty general- 
ly — in papa, for instance.” 

“Ah, that’s beyond a sentiment. But in Eflle it will only be a 
flare and all over. She will be penitent. After a little while she 
will be awfully sweet to Fred.” 

“And do you really want him to — propose to her. Dor?” 

“ That is a strong step,” said the young lady, “ because if he did 
he would have to stick to it. I don’t see that I am called upon to 
consider contingencies. ‘ In the meantime it’s very amusing to see 
Fred in love.” 

“In the absence,” said Phyllis, “of more exciting preoccupa- 
tions.” 

“Ah! that’s true; you’re a marrying woman yourself,” was the 
remark her sister made. 

Meanwhile Fred had overtaken Etfie, who was already beginning 
to feel ashamed and remorseful, and to say in her own ear that it was 
she who was making a fool of herself. How could she have been so 
silly? People always make themselves ridiculous when they take 
offence, and, of course, they would only laugh at her for being so 
touchy, so absurd. But nobody likes to be mocked, or to be mim- 
icked, which comes to the same thing, Eflie said to herself. 

A hot tear had gathered into each eye, but the flush was softening 
down, and compunction was more and more getting possession of 
her bosom, when Fred, anxious, devoted, panting, came up to her. 
It was a moment or two before he could get breath to speak. 

“ I don’t know what to say to you. Miss Ogilvie. That is just my 
difficulty with the girls,” said Fred, promptly throwing his sisters 
over, as they had divined. “ They have so little perception. Not a 
bad sort in themselves, and devoted to you; but without tact— with- 
out your delicacy of feeling — without — ” 

“Oh,” cried Effie, “you must not compare them with me; they 
are far, far cleverer— far more instructed— far — It was so silly of 
me to be vexed — ” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


53 


“Not silly at all; just what you would naturally be with your re- 
fined tastes. I can’t tell you how I felt it, ’’said Fred, giving him- 
self credit for the perception that was wanting in his sisters. “ But 
you will forgive them. Miss Ogilvie? they wull be so unhappy.” 

“Oh, no,” cried Eflfie, with once more a sense of the ludicrous in 
this assertion. But Fred was as grave as an owl, and meant every 
word he said. 

“Yes, indeed, and they deserve to be so; but if I may tell them 
that you forgive them — ” 

“It is not worth speaking about, Mr. Dirom; I was foolish too. 
And are you really going to have Americans here? I never saw any 
Americans. What interest would they take in our old churchyard, 
and Adam Fleming’s broken gravestone?” 

“ They take more interest in that sort of thing than we do whom 
it belongs to; that is to say, it doesn’t belong to us. I am as much 
a new man as any Yankee, and have as little right. We are mere 
interlopers, you know.” 

Fred said this with a charming smile he had, a smile full of frank 
candor and openness, which forestalled criticism. EflSe had heard 
the same sentiment expressed by others with a very different effect. 
When Fred said it, it seemed a delightful absurdity. lie laughed a 
little, and so, carried away by sympathetic feeling, did she, shame- 
faced and feeling guilty in her heart at the remembrance of the 
many times in which, without any sense of absurdity, she had heard 
the same words said. 

“We are a queer family,” he continued, in his pleasant, explana- 
tory way. “My father is the money-maker, and he thinks a great 
deal of it; but we make no money, and I think we are really as 
indifferent about it as if w^e had been born in the backwoods. If 
anything happened at the office I should take to my studio, and I 
hope I should not enjoy myself too much, but there would be the 
danger. ‘ Ah, freedom is a noble thing,’ as old Barbour says.” 

Effie did not know who old Barbour was, and she was uncertain 
how to reply. She said at last, timidly, “But you could not do with- 
out a great deal of money, Mr. Dirom. You have everything you 
want, and you don’t know how it comes. It is like a fairy tale.” 

Fred smiled again with an acquiescence which had pleasure in 
it. Though he made so little of his advantages, he liked to hear 
them recognized. 


'54 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“ You are right,” he said, “ as you always are. Miss Ogilvie. You 
seem to know things by instinct. But all the same we don’t stand 
on these things; we are a little Bohemian, all of us young ones. I 
suppose you would think it something dreadful if you had to turn 
out of Gilston. But we should rather like any such twist of the 
whirligig of fortune. The girls would think it fun.” 

To this Effie did not make any reply. To be turned out of Gil- 
ston was an impossibility, for the family at least, whatever it might 
be for individuals. And she did not understand about Bohemians. 
She made no answer at all. When one is in doubt it is the safest 
way. But Fred walked with her all the way home, and his conver- 
sation was certainly more amusing than that with which she was 
generally entertained. There ran through it a little vein of flattery. 
There was in his eyes a light of admiration, a gleam from time to 
time of something which dazzled her, which she could not meet, yet 
furtively caught under her drooping eyelashes, and which roused a 
curious pleasure mixed with amusement, and a comical sense of 
guilt and wickedness on her own part. 

She was flattered and dazzled, and yet something of the same 
laughter with which she listened to Phyllis and Doris was in her 
eyes. Did he mean it all? or what did he mean? Was he making 
conversation like his sisters, saying things that he meant to be pret- 
ty? Effle, though she was so simple, so inexperienced, in compari- 
son with those clever young people, wondered, yet kept her balance, 
steadied by that native instinct of humor, and not carried away by 
any of these fine things. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“We were seeing young Mr. Dirom a little bit on his way. He is 
so kind walking home with Effle that it was the least we could do. 
I never met with a more civil young man.” 

“It appears to me that young Dirom is never out of your house. 
You’ll have to be thinking what will come of it.” 

“ What should come of it,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with a laugh, and a 
look of too conscious innocence, “ but civility, as I say? though they 
are new people, they have kind, neighborlike ways.” 

“ I’ve no confidence,” said Miss Dempster, “ in that kind of neigh- 
bors. If he were to walk home with Bcenie or me, that are about 
the oldest friends they have in the district — oh, yes, their oldest 
friends; for I sent my card and a request to know if a call would be 
agreeable as soon as they came; it may be old-fashioned, but it’s my 
way; and I find it to answer. And, as I’m saying, if he had made 
an offer to walk home with me or my sister, that would have been 
neighborlike; but Eflie is just quite a different question. I hope, if 
you let it go on, that you’re facing the position, and not letting your- 
self be taken unawares.” 

“Well,” said Mrs, Ogilvie, “that’s a thing that seldom happens, 
though I say it myself. I can generally see as far as most folk. 
But whatever you do, say nothing of this to Eflie. We must just 
respect her innocence. Experienced people see a great deal that 
should never be spoken of before the young. I will leave her in 
your charge and Miss Beenie’s, for I am going to Summerlaw, and 
she has had a long walk, ” 

“ Your stepmother is a very grand general, Eflie,” said Miss Demp- 
ster, as they watched Mrs. Ogilvie’s figure disappearing between the 
high laurel hedges.' 

It was a warm afternoon, though September had begun. Miss 
Beenie was seated on the garden seat in front of the drawing-room 
window, which afforded so commanding a prospect of the doctor’s 
sitting-room, with her work-basket beside her, and her spectacles 


56 


EFFIE OGIL'V^E, 


upon her nose. But Miss Dempster, who thought it was never safe, 
except perhaps for a day or two in July, to sit out, kept walking 
about, now nipping off a withered leaf, now gathering a sprig of he- 
liotrope, or the scented verbena, promenading up and down with 
a shawl upon her shoulders. She had taken Effle’s arm with an 
instant perception of the advantages of an animated walking- 
staff. 

The little platform of fine gravel before the door was edged by 
the green of the sloping lawn in front, but on either side ended in 
deep borders filled with every kind of old-fashioned and sweet- 
smelling flower. The sloping drive had well- clipped hedges of shin- 
ing laurel which surrounded the entrance ; but nothing interrupted 
the view from this little height, which commanded not only the doc- 
tor’s mansion, but all the village. No scene could have been more 
peaceful in the sunny afternoon. There were few people stirring 
below, there was nobody to be seen at the doctor’s windows. 

The manse, which was visible at a distance, stood in the broad 
sunshine with all its doors and windows open, taking in the warmth 
to its very bosom. Mrs. Ogilvie disappeared for a short time be- 
tween the hedges, and then came out again, moving along the white 
road till she was lost in the distance, Glen slowly following, divided 
in his mind between the advantages of a walk which was good for 
his health, and the pleasure of lying in the sun and waiting for Eflie, 
which he preferred as a matter of taste. But the large mat at the 
door, which Glen was aware was the comfortable spot at Rosebank, 
was already occupied by the nasty little terrier to which the Miss 
Dempsters, much to Glen’s contempt, were devoted, and the gravel 
was unpleasant. So he walked, but rather by way of deference to 
the necessities of the situation than from any lively personal im- 
pulse, and went along meditatively with only an occasional slow 
switch of his tail, keeping well behind the trim and active figure of 
his mistress. In the absence of other incidents these two moving 
specks upon the road kept the attention of the small party of specta- 
tors on the soft heights of Rosebank. 

“Your stepmother’s a grand general,” said Miss Dempster again; 
“ but she must not think that she deceives everybody, Eflie. It’s a 
very legitimate effort; but perhaps if she let things take their own 
course she would just do as well at the end.” 

“ What is she trying to do?” said Effle, with indifference, “ It is 


EPPIE OGILVIE. 


57 


a pity Mrs. Ogilvie has only Rory ; for she is so active and so busy, 
she could manage a dozen, Uncle John always says.” 

“ She has you, my dear — and a great deal more interesting than 
Rory ; who is a nice enough bairn, if he were not spoiled, just beyond 
conception — as, poor thing, some day she’ll find out.” 

Effie did not pay any attention to the latter part of this speech. 
She cried “Me!” in the midst of it, with little regard to Miss Demp- 
ster, and less (had she been an English girl) to propriety in her pro- 
nouns. But she was Scotch, and above reproof. 

“ No,” she cried, “ she has not me. Miss Dempster; you are making 
a mistake. She says I am old enough to guide myself.” 

“ A bonnie guide you would be for yourself. But, no doubt, ye 
think that too; there is no end to the confidence of young folk in 
this generation. And you are nineteen, which is a wise age. ” 

“No,” said Effie, “I don’t think it is a wise age. And then I 
have Uncle John; and then, what is perhaps the best of all, I have 
nothing to do that calls for any guiding, so I am quite safe.” 

“ Oh, yes, that’s a grand thing, ” said the old lady ; “ to be j ust peace- 
able and quiet, like Beenie and me, and no cross-roads to perplex ye, 
nor the need of choosing one way or another. But that’s a blessing 
that generally comes on later in life; and we’re seldom thankful for 
it when it does come.” 

“No,” said Effie, “I have nothing to choose. What should I 
have to choose? unless it was whether I would have a tweed or a 
velveteen for my winter frock ; or, perhaps — ” here she stopped, with 
a soft little smile dimpling about her mouth. 

“Ay,” said the old lady; “or perhaps — ? The perhaps is just 
what 1 w^ould like to know.” 

“Sarah,” said Miss Beenie from behind, “what are you doing 
putting things in the girlie’s head?” 

“Just darn your stockings and hold your tongue,” said the elder 
sister. She leaned her weight more heavily on Effie’s arm by way 
of securing her attention. 

“ Now and then,” she said; “the road takes a crook before it di- 
vides. There’s that marshy bit where the Laggan burn runs before 
you come to Windyha’. If you are not thinking, it just depends on 
which side of the road you take whether you go straight on the good 
highway to Dumfries, or down the lane that’s always deep in dust, or 
else a very slough of despond. You’re there before you know.” 


S8 


teFPIE OGILVIE. 


“ But what has that to do with me?” said Effie; “and then,” she 
added, with a little elevation of her head, ‘ ‘ if I’m in any ditliculty, 
there is Uncle John.” 

“Oh, ay; he’s often very fine in the pulpit. I would not ask for 
a better guide in the Gospel, which is his vocation. But in the ways 
of this world, Effle Ogilvie, your Uncle John is just an innocent like 
yourself.” 

“ That is all you know,” said Effle, indignantly. “ Me an inno- 
cent!” She was accustomed to hear the word applied to the idiot 
of the parish, the piteous figure which scarcely any parish is with- 
out. Then she laughed, and added, with a sudden change of tone, 
“They think me very sensible at Allonby. They think I am the 
one that is always serious. They say I am fact; and they are poetry, 
I suppose,” she said, after a second pause, with another laugh. 

“Poetry!” said Miss Dempster, “you’re meaning silly nonsense. 
They are just two haverals, those two daftlike girls with their dark 
rooms, and all their affected ways; and as for the brother—” 

“ What about the brother?” said Effle, with an almost impercepti- 
ble change of tone. 

“ Aha!” said the old lady, “ now we see where the interest lies.” 

“ It is nothing of the kind,” cried the girl, “ it is just your imag- 
ination. You take a pleasure in twisting every word, and making 
me think shame. It is just to hear what you have got to say.” 

“I have not very much to say,” said Miss Dempster; “we’re 
great students of human nature, both Beenie and me ; but I cannot 
just give my opinion off-hand. There’s one thing I will tell you, 
and that is just that he is not our Ronald, which makes all the differ- 
ence to me.” 

“Ronald!” cried the girl, wondering. “Well, no; but did any- 
body ever say he was like Ronald?” 

She paused a little, and a soft suffusion of color once more came 
over her face. “ What has Ronald to do with it? He is no more 
like Ronald than he is like — me.” 

“And I don’t think him like you at all,” cried Miss Dempster, 
quickly, “ which is just the whole question. He is not of your kind, 
Effle. We’re all human creatures, no doubt, but there’s different 
species. Beenie, what do you think? Would you say that young 
Fred Dirom — that is the son of a merchant prince, and so grand and 
so rich— would you say he was of our own kind? would you say he 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 59 

was like Effle, or like Ronald? Ronald’s a young man about the 
same age ; would you say he was of Ronald’s kind.” 

“ Bless me, what a very strange question!” Miss Beenie looked up 
with every evidence of alarm. Her spectacles fell from her nose; 
the stocking in which her hand and arm were enveloped fell limp 
upon her lap. 

“ I’ve no time to answer conundrums; they’re just things for win- 
ter evenings, not for daylight. And when you know how I’ve been 
against it from the very first,” she added, after a pause, with some 
warmth. “ It might be a grand thing from a worldly point of view; 
but what do we know about him or his connections? And as for 
business, it is just a delusion ; it’s up to-day and down to-morrow. 
I’ve lived in Glasgow, and I know what it means. Ye may be very 
grand, and who but you for a while; and then the next moment 
nothing.' No; if there was not another man in the world, not the 
like of that man,” cried Miss Beenie, warming more and more, ges- 
ticulating unconsciously with the muffled hand which was all 
wrapped up in stocking; “ and to compare him with our poor Ron- 
ald — ” She dropped suddenly from her excitement, as if this name 
had brought her to herself. “You are making me say what I ought 
not to say — and before Effle! I will never be able to look one of 
them in the face again.” 

Effle stood upon the gravel opposite to the speaker, notwith- 
standing the impulse of Miss Dempster’s arm to lead her away. 
“ I wish you would tell me what you mean. I wish I knew what 
Ronald had to do with me, ” she said. 

“ He’s just an old friend, poor laddie — just an old friend. Never 
you mind what Beenie says. She’s a little touched in that direc- 
tion, we all know. Never you mind. It’s my own conviction that 
young Dirom, having no connections, would be but a very precari- 
ous — But no doubt your parents know best. Ronald is just the 
contrary — plenty of connections, but no money. The one is per- 
haps as bad as the other. And it’s not for us to interfere. Your 
own people must know best. ” 

“ What is there to interfere about? and what has Ronald to do 
with it? and, oh, what are you all talking about?” cried Effle, be- 
wildered. What with the conversation which meant nothing, and 
that which meant too much, her little brain was all in a ferment. 
She withdrew herself suddenly from Miss Dempster’s arms. 


60 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“I will get you your stick out of the hall which will do just as 
well as me; for I’m going away.” 

“Why should you go away? Your father is in Dumfries, your 
mother will be getting her tea at Summerlaw. There is nobody 
wanting you at home; and Beenie has ordered our honey -scones 
that you are so fond of.” 

“ I want no honey-scones!” cried EfBe. “ You mean something, 
and you will not tell me what you mean. I am going to Uncle 
John.” 

“She is a hot-headed little thing. She must just take her own 
gait and guide herself. Poor innocent I as if it were not all settled 
and planned beforehand what she was to do.” 

“Oh, Sarah, stop woman, for goodness’ sake! You are putting 
things in the girlie’s head, and that is just what we promised not to 
do.” 

“What things are you putting in my head? You are just driv- 
ing me wild!” cried Effle, stamping her foot on the gravel. 

It was not the first time by a great many that she had departed 
from Rosebank in this way. The criticisms of old ladies are sadly 
apt to irritate young ones, and this pretence of knowing so much 
more about her than she knew about herself has always the most 
exasperating effect. 

She turned her back upon them, and went away between the 
laurel hedges with a conviction that they were saying, “What a 
little fury!” and “What an ill - brought - up girl!” which did not 
mend matters. These were the sort of things the Miss Dempsters 
said — not without a cackle of laughter — of the rage and impatience 
of the young creature they had been baiting. Her mind was in 
high commotion, instinctive rebellion flaming up amid the curiosity 
and anxiety with which she asked herself what was it that was 
settled and planned? 

Whatever it was, Effie would not do it— that was one thing of 
which she felt sure. If it had been her own mother, indeed! 
but who was Mrs. Ogilvie, to settle for her what she ought to do? 
She would be her own guide, whatever any one might settle. 
If she took counsel with any one, it should be Uncle John, who 
was her nearest friend — when there was anything to take counsel 
about. 

But at present there was nothing, not a question of any sort that 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


61 


she knew, except whether the new tennis court that was making at 
Gilston could possibly be ready for this season, which, of course, it 
could not; no question whatever; and what had Ronald to do with 
it? Ronald had been gone for three years. There had been no 
news of him lately. If there were a hundred questions, what could 
Ronald have to do with them? 

She went down very quickly between the laurel hedges, and 
paused at the gate, where she could not be seen from the terrace, to 
smooth down her ruffled plumes a little and take breath. But as 
she turned into the road her heart began to thump again, with no 
more reason for it than the sudden appearance of Uncle John, com- 
ing quietly along at his usual leisurely pace. She had said she was 
going to him; but she did not really wish to meet Uncle John, 
whose kind eyes had a way of seeing through and through you, 
at this present excited moment, for she knew that he would find her 
out. 

Whether he did so or not, he came up in his sober way, smiling 
that smile which he kept for Effle. He was prone to smile at the 
world in general, being very friendly and kind, and generally think- 
ing well of his neighbors. But he had a smile which was for Effle 
alone. He caught in a moment the gleam in her eyes, the moisture, 
and the blaze of angry feeling. 

“ What, Effle,” he said, “you have been in the wars. What have 
the old ladies been saying now?” 

“Oh, Uncle John,” she began, eagerly; but then stopped all at 
once; for the vague talk in which a young man’s name is involved, 
which does not tell for very much among women, becomes uncom- 
fortable and suspicious when a man is admitted within hearing. She 
changed her mind and her tone, but could not change her color, 
which rose high under her troubled eyes. 

“Oh, I suppose it was nothing,” she said, “it was not about me; 
it was about Ronald and Mr. Fred Dirom; though they could not 
even know each other — could they know each other?” 

“ I can’t tell you, Effle; most likely not; they certainly have not 
been together here; but they may have met as young men meet— 
somewhere else.” 

“ Perhaps that was what it was. But yet I don’t see what Ron- 
ald could have to do with it.” 

Here Effle stopped again, and grew redder than ever, expecting 


62 


EPFIE OGILVEE. 


that Mr. Moubray would ask her, “ To do with — what?” and bring 
back all the confusion again. 

But the minister was more wise. He began to perceive vaguely 
what the character of the suggestion, which had made Effie angry, 
must have been. It was much clearer to him indeed than it was to 
her, through these two names, which as yet to Effie suggested no 
connection. 

“ Unless it is that Fred Dirom is here and Ronald away,” he said, 
“ I know no link. And what sort of a fellow is Fred Dirom, Effie, 
for I scarcely know him at all.” 

“What sort of a fellow?” Mr. Moubray was so easy, and ban- 
ished so carefully all meaning from his looks, that Effie was re- 
lieved. She began to laugh. 

“ I don’t know what to say. He is like the girls, but not quite 
like the girls.” 

“ That does not give me much information, my dear.” 

“ Oh, Uncle John, they are all so funny! What can I say? They 
talk and they talk, and it is all made up. It is about nothing, about 
fancies they take in their heads, about what they think, but not 
real thinking, only fancies, thinking what to say.” 

“That’s the art of conversation, Effie,” the minister said. 

“ Conversation? Oh, no, oh, surely not! conversation would mean 
something. At Allonby it is all very pretty, but it means nothing 
at all. They just make stories out of nothing, and talk for the sake 
of talking. I laugh— I cannot help it — though I could not quite 
tell you why.” 

“And the brother, does he do the same?” 

“Oh, the brother! No, he is not so funny, he does not talk so 
much. He says little, really, on the whole, except ” — here Effie 
stopped and colored and laughed softly, but in a different tone. 

“Except?” repeated Uncle John. 

“Well, when he is walking home with me. Then he is obliged 
to speak, because there is no one else to say anything. When we 
are altogether it is they who speak. But how can he help it? He 
has to talk when there is only me.” 

“And is his talk about fancies too? or does he say things that are 
more to the purpose, Effie?” 

Effie paused a little before she replied. “I have to think,” she 
said; “ I don’t remember anything he said— except— Oh, yes!— but 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


63 


— it was not to the purpose. It was only— nothing in particular,” 
she continued, with a little wavering color and a small, sudden laugh 
in which there was some confusing recollection. 

“ Ah!” said Uncle John, nodding his head. “ I think I see what 
you mean.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


The young ladies at Allonby, though Effle thought they meant 
notliing except to make conversation, had really more purpose in 
their extravagances than that severe little critic thought. To young 
ladies who have nothing to do a new idea in the way of entertain- 
ment is a fine thing. 

And though a garden-party, or any kind of a party, is not an affair 
of much importance, yet it holds really a large place in unoccupied 
lives. Even going to it may mean much to the unconcerned and 
uninterested: the most philosophical of men, the most passive of 
women, may thus find their fate. They may drift up against a 
partner at tennis, or hand a cup of tea to the predestined individual 
who is to make or mar their happiness for life. 

So that no human assembly is without its importance to some one, 
notwithstanding that to the majority they may be collectively and 
separately “a bore.” But to those who get them up they are still 
more important, and furnish a much-needed occupation and excite- 
ment, with the most beneficial effect both upon health and temper. 

The Miss Diroms were beginning to feel a little low ; the country 
was more humdrum than they had expected. They had not been 
quite sure when they came to Scotland that there were not deer- 
forests on the Border. They had a lingering belief that the peasants 
wore the tartan. They had hoped for something feudal, some rem- 
nant of the Middle Ages. 

But they found nothing of this sort; they found a population 
which was not at all feudal, people who were friendly, but not over 
respectful, unaccustomed to courtesy and disinclined to be patronized. 
They were thrown back upon themselves. As for the aspect of the 
great people, the Diroms were acquainted with much greater people, 
and thought little of the county magnates. 

It was a providential suggestion which put that idea about the 
music under the cliff into the head of Doris. And as a garden-party 
in September, in Scotland, even in the south, is a ticklish perform- 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


65 


ance, and wants every kind of organization, the sisters were imme- 
diately plunged into business. There was this in its favor, that they 
had the power of tempering the calm of the Dumfriesshire aristoc- 
racy by visitors from the greater world at that time scattered over all 
Scotland, and open to variety wherever they could find it. Even of 
the Americans, for whom the young ladies had sighed, there were 
three or four easily attainable. And what with the story of Fair 
Helen and the little churchyard and the ballad, these visitors would 
be fully entertained. 

Everything was in train, the invitations sent out and accepted, the 
house in full bustle of preparation, every one occupied and amused, 
when, to the astonishment of his family, Mr. Dirom arrived upon a 
visit. 

“ I thought I’d come and look you up,” he said. He was, as he 
himself described it, “in great force,” his white waistcoat ampler, 
his watch-chain heavier, himself more beaming than ever. 

His arrival always made a difference in the house, and it was not, 
perhaps, an enjo3’’able difference. It introduced a certain anxiety — a 
new element. The kind and docile mother, who, on ordinary occa- 
sions, was at everybody’s command, and with little resistance did 
what was told her, became all at once, in the shadow of her husband, 
a sort of silent authority. She was housekeeper no longer; she had 
to be consulted, and to give, or pretend to give, orders, which was a 
trouble to her, as well as to the usual rulers of the house. Nobody 
disliked it more than Mrs. Dirom herself, who had to pretend that 
the party was her own idea, and that she had superintended the in- 
vitations, in a way which was very painful to the poor lady’s recti- 
tude and love of truth. 

“You should have confined yourself to giving dinners,” her hus- 
band said, “as many dinners as you like. You’ve got a good cellar, 
or I’m mistaken, and plenty of handsome plate, and all that sort of 
thing. The dinners are the thing; men like ’em, and, take my word 
for it, it’s the men’s opinions that tell. Females may think they 
have it their own way in society, but it’s the men’s opinion that 
tells.” 

“You mean the males, I suppose,” said Doris. “Keep to one 
kind of word, papa.” 

“Yes, Miss D., I mean the males — your superiors,” said Mr. 
Dirom, with first a stare at his critic and then a laugh. “I thought 
5 


66 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


you might consider the word offensive; hut if you don’t mind, nei- 
ther do I.” 

“Oh, what is the use of quarrelling about a word?” said the 
mother, hastily. “We have had dinners. We have returned all 
that have been given us. That is all any one can expect us to do, 
George. Then the girls thought — for a little variety, to fill the house 
and amuse everybody — ” 

“With tea and toast— and hot- water bottles, I hope, to put under 
their feet. Til tell you, Phyllis, what you ought to do. Get out all 
the keepers and gardeners with warm towels to wipe the rain off 
the trees; and have the laundresses out to iron the grass — by Jove, 
that’s the thing to do ; reduce rheumatic fevers to a minimum, and 
save as many bad colds as possible. I shall say you did it when I 
get back to my club.” 

Phyllis and Doris looked at each other. 

“It might be really a good thing to do. And it would be fun. 
Don’t you think the electric light put on night and day for forty- 
eight hours would do some good? What an excellent thing it is to 
have papa here ! He is so practical. He sees in a moment the right 
thing. ” 

This applause had the effect, rarely attained, of confusing for a 
moment the man of money. 

“It appears I am having a success,” he said. “Or perhaps in- 
stead of taking all this trouble you would like me to send a consign- 
ment of fur cloaks from town for the use of your guests. The Scotch 
ladies would like that best, for it would be something,” he said, with 
his big laugh, “ to carry away.” 

“And I believe,” said Mrs. Dirom, very anxious to be conciliatory, 
“you could afford it, George.” 

“Oh, afford it!” he said, with again that laugh, in which there 
was such a sound of money, of plenty, of a confidence inexhaustible, 
that nobody could have heard it and remained unimpressed. But 
all the same it was an offensive laugh, which the more finely strung 
nerves of his children could scarcely bear. 

“After all,” said Fred, “we don’t want to insult our neighbors 
with our money. If they are willing to run the risk, we may let 
them; and there will always be the house to retire into, if it should 
be wet.” 

“Oh, of course there would always be the house. It is a very fine 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


67 


thing to have a good liousc to retire into, whatever happens. I should 
like you to realize that, all of you, and make your hay while the sun 
shines.” 

The room in which the family were sitting was not dark, as when 
they were alone. The blinds were all drawn up, the sunshades, so 
often drawn when there was no sun, elevated, though a ruddy west- 
erly sky, in all the force of approaching sunset, blazed down upon the 
front of the house. The young people exchanged looks, ip which 
there was a question. 

What did he mean? He meant nothing, it appeared, since he fol- 
lowed up his remarks by opening a parcel which he had brought 
down-stairs in his hand, and from which he took several little 
morocco boxes, of shape and appearance calculated to make the 
hearts of women — or at least such hearts of women as Mr. Dirora 
understood — beat high. They were some “little presents” which 
he had brought to his family. He had a way of doing it— and “ for 
choice, ” as he said, he preferred diamonds. 

‘ ‘ They always fetch their price, and they are very portable. Even 
in a woman’s useless pocket, or in her bag or reticule, or whatever 
you call it, she might carry a little fortune, and no one ever be the 
wiser,” Mr. Dirom said. 

“ When one has diamonds,” said Phyllis, “one wishes everybody 
to be the wiser, papa; we don’t get them to conceal them, do we, 
Dor? Do you think it will be too much to wear that pendant to- 
morrow — in daylight? Well, it is a little ostentatious.” 

“And you are rather too young for diamonds, Phyll— if your 
papa was not so good to you,” said Mrs. Dirom, in her uncertain 
voice. 

“ She’s jealous, girls,” said her husband, “ though hers are the best. 
Young! nobody is ever too young; take the good of everything while 
you have it, and as long as you have it, that’s my philosophy. And 
look here, there’s the sun shining— I shouldn’t be surprised if, after 
all, to-morrow you were to have a fine day.” 

They had a fine day, and the party was very successful. Doris 
had carried out her idea about the music on the opposite bank, and 
it was very effective. The guests took up this phrase from the sis- 
ters, who asked, “ Was it not very effective?” with ingenuous delight 
in their own success. 

It ^vas no common band from the neighborhood, nor even a party 


68 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


of wandering Germans, but a carefully selected company of min- 
strels brought from London at an enormous cost ; and while half the 
county walked about upon the tolerably dry lawn, or inspected the 
house and all the new and elegant articles of art-furniture which the 
Diroms had brought, the trembling melody of the violins quivered 
through the air, and the wind instruments sighed and shouted 
through all the echoes of the dene. The whole scene was highly 
effective, and all the actors in it looking and smiling their best. 

The marquis kindly paid Mr, Dirom a compliment on his “ splen- 
did hospitality,” and the eloquent Americans who made pilgrimages 
to Adam Fleming’s grave, and repeated tenderly his adjuration to 
“ Helen fair beyond compare,” regarded everything, except Mr. Di- 
rom in his white waistcoat, with that mixture of veneration and 
condescension which inspires the transatlantic bosom amid the im- 
memorial scenery of old England. 

‘ Don’t you feel the spell coming over you, don’t you feel the 
mosses growing?” they cried. “ See, this is English dust and damp 
— the ethereal mould which comes over your very hands, as dear 
John Burroughs says. Presently, if you don’t wash ’em, little plants 
will begin to grow all along your line of life. Wonderful English 
country — mother of the ages !” 

jThis was what the American guests said to each other. It was the 
Miss Dempsters, to whom Americans were as the South Sea Island- 
ers, and who were anxious to observe the customs and manners of 
the unknown race, before whom these poetical exclamations were 
made. 

“The English country may be wonderful, though I know very 
little about it; but you are forgetting it is not here,” Miss Dempster 
said. “This is Scotland; maybe you may never have heard the 
name before.” 

It is needless to say that the ladies and gentlemen from across the 
Atlantie smiled at the old native woman’s mistake. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, we know Scotland very well— almost best of all— for has 
not everybody read the Waverleys? at least all our fathers and 
mothers read them, though they may be a little out of date in our 
day.” 

“ You must be clever indeed if Walter Scott is not clever enough 
for you,” said the old lady grimly. “ But here’s just one thing that 
a foolish person like me, it seems, can correct you in, and that’s that 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


69 


this country-side is not England. No, nor ever was; and Adam 
Fleeming in his grave yonder could have told you that.” 

“Was he a Border chief? was he one of the knights in Branksome 
Hall? We know all about that. ^\.nd to think you should be of the 
same race, and have lived here always, and known the story, and sung 
the song all your life !” 

“ I never was much addicted to singing songs, for my part. He 
must have been a feckless kind of creature to let her get between 
him and the man that wanted his blood. But he was very natural 
after that I will say. ‘I hackit him in pieces sma’,’”said Miss 
Dempster; “that is the real Border spirit: and I make little doubt 
he was English — the man with the gun.” 

The pretty young ladies in their pretty toilets gathered about the 
old lady. 

“It is most interesting,” they said; “just what one wished to 
find in the old country— the real accent — the true hereditary feel- 
ing.” 

“You are just behaving like an old haverel,” said Miss Beenie to 
her sister, in an undertone. It seldom occurred to her to take the 
command of affairs, but she saw her opportunity and seized it. 

“ For our part,” she said, “ it is just as interesting to us to see real 
people from America. I have heard a great deal about them, but I 
never saw them before. It will be a great change to find yourselves 
in the midst of ceevilization? And what was that about mosses 
growing on your poor bit little hands? Bless me! I have heard of 
hair and fur, but never of green growth. Will that be common on 
your side of the water?” 

She spoke with the air of one who was seeking information. Mr. 
John Burroughs himself, that charming naturalist, might have been 
disconcerted by so serious a question. And the two old ladies re- 
mained in possession of the field. 

“I just answered a fool according to his folly,” Miss Beenie re- 
marked, with modest enjoyment of a triumph that seldom fell to her 
share, ‘ ‘ for you were carried away, Sarah, and let them go on with 
their impidence. A set of young idiots out of a sauvage country 
that were too grand for Walter Scott!” 

It was on the whole a great day for the Miss Dempsters. They 
saw everybody, they explored the whole house, and identified every 
piece of furniture that was not Lady Allonby’s. They made a pri- 


70 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


vate inspection of the dining-room, where there was a hulfet — erected 
not only for light refreshments, but covered with luxuries and deli- 
cacies of a more serious description. 

“ Bless me, I knew there was l;ea and ices,” they said; it’s like a 
ball supper, and a grand one. Oh, those millionaires! they just can- 
not spend money enough. But I like our own candlesticks, said 
Miss Dempster, “far better than these branchy things, like the dulse 
on the shore, the candela wbra, or whatever they call it, on yon 
table.” 

“ They’re bigger,” said Miss Beenie; “ but my opinion is that the 
branches are all hollow, not solid like ours. ” 

“There’s not many like ours,” said Miss Dempster; “ indeed, I am 
disposed to think they are just unique. Lord bless us, is that the 
doctor at the side -table? He is eating up everything. The capacity 
that man has is just extraordinary — both for driblets of drink and 
for solid food.” 

“ Is that you, ladies?” said the doctor. “ I looked for you among 
the first, and, now you’re here, let me offer you some of this raised 
pie. It’s just particularly good, with truffles as big as my thumb. 

I take credit for suggesting a game pie. I said they would send the 
whole parish into my hands with their cauld ices that are not adapted 
to our climate.” 

“We were just saying ices are but a wersh provision, and make 
you shiver to think of them at this time of the year; but many 
thanks to you, doctor. We are not in the habit of either eating or 
drinking between meals. Perhaps a gentleman may want it, and you 
have science to help you down with it. But two women like us, we 
are just very well content with a cup of tea.” 

“ Which is a far greater debauch,” said the doctor, hotly, “for you 
are always at it.” But he put down his plate. “The auld cats,” 
he said to himself; “ there’s not a drop passes my lips but they see 
it, and it will be over all the parish that I was standing guzzlin’ here 
at this hour of the day.” 

But there were others beside the doctor who took advantage of the 
raised pie and appreciated the truffles. People who have been 
whetted by music and vague conversation, and have nothing to do or 
think of for a weary afternoon, eat with enthusiasm when the chance 
occurs; they eat even cake and bread-and-butter, how much more 
the luxurious mayonnaise and lobsters and foie gras. After the 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


71 


shiver of an ice it was grateful to turn to better fare. And Mr. 
Dirom was in his glory in the dining-room, which was soon filled 
by a crowd rbore animated and genial than that which had strolled 
about the lawn. 

“You will spoil your dinner,” the ladies said to their husbands, 
but with small effect. 

“Never mind the dinner,” said the master of the house. “ Have 
a little of this Chfiteau Yquem. It is not a wine you can get every 
day. I call it melted gold; but I never ask the price of a wine so 
long as it’s good; and there’s plenty more where that came from.” 

His wealth was rampant, and sounded in his voice and in his 
laugh, till you seemed to hear the money tinkle. Phyllis and Doris 
and Fred cast piteous glances at each other when they met. 

“ Oh, wilf nobody take him away?” they cried, under their breath. 
“Fred, can’t you pretend there is a telegram and dreadful news? 
Can’t you say the Bank of England is broke and the chancellor of 
the exchequer has run away?” 

He wounded his children’s nerves and their delicacy beyond de- 
cription, but still it had to be allowed that he was the master of the 
house. And so the party came to an end, and the guests, many of 
them with indigestions, but with the most cordial smiles and ap- 
plause and hand-shaking, were gradually cleared away. 


CHAPTER X. 


Mr. Ogilvie was one of those who carried away an incipient in- 
digestion. He was not accustomed to truffles nor to Chateau Y quein. 
But he did not spoil his dinner — for as they were in the habit of 
dining rather early, and it was now nearly seven o’clock, his wife 
promptly decided that a cup of tea when he got home would be 
much the best thing for him, and that no dinner need be served in 
Gilston House that day. She said, “You must just 'look a little 
lively, Robert, till we get away. Don’t let strangers think that 
you’ve been taking more than is good for you, either of meat or 
drink.” 

“Drink!” said the good man. “Yon’s nectar; but I might have 
done without the salad. Salad is a cold thing upon the stomach. 
I’m lively enough if you would let me alone. And he’s a grand fel- 
low, the father of them. He grudges nothing. I have not seen 
such a supper since my dancing days.” 

“It was no supper; it was just a tea-party. I wish you would 
wake up and understand. Here is Mr. Dirom with Effie coming 
to put me into the carriage. Rouse up, man, and say a civil 
word. ” 

“I’ll do that,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “We’ve had a most enjoyable 
evening, Mr. Dirom, a good supper and a capital band, and — But 
I cannot get it out of my liead that it’s been a ball— which is impos- 
sible now I see all these young ladies with hats and bonnets upon 
their heads.” 

“I wish it had been a ball,” said the overwhelming host. “ We 
ought to have kept it up half through the night, and enjoyed anoth- 
er supper, eh? at midnight, and a little more of that Clicquot. I 
hope there’s enough for half a dozen balls. Why hadn’t you the 
sense to keep the young people for the evening, Fred? Perhaps you 
thought the provisions wouldn’t last, or that I would object to pay 
the band for a few hours longer. My children make me look stingy, 
Mrs. Ogilvie. They have got a number of small, economical ways.” 


EFFIE OGILVIE^ 


73 


“And that’s an excellent thing,” said the lady, “for perhaps they 
may not have husbands that will be so liberal as their father — or so 
well able to afford it — and then what would they do?” 

‘ ‘ I hope to put them beyond the risk of all that, ” said the man of 
money, jingling his coins. He did not offer to put Mrs. Ogilvie into 
the carriage, as she had supposed, but looked on with his hands in his 
pockets, and saw her get in. The Ogilvies were almost the last to 
leave, and the last object that impressed itself upon them as they 
turned round the corner of the house was Mr. Dirom’s white waist- 
coat, which looked half as big as Allonby itself. When every one 
had disappeared he took Fred, who was not very willing, by the 
arm, and led him along the river-bank. 

“Is that the family,” he said, “my fine fellow, that they tell me 
you want to marry into, Fred?” 

“I have never thought of the family. Since you bring it in so 
suddenly — though I was scarcely prepared to speak on the subject — 
yes; that’s the young lady whom in all the world, sir, I should choose 
for my wife.” 

“Much you know about the world,” said Mr. Dirom. “I can’t 
imagine what you are thinking of; a bit of a bread-and-butter girl, 
red and white, not a fortune, no style about her, or anything out of 
the common. Why, at your age, without a tithe of your advantages, 
I shouldn’t have looked at her, Mr. Fred. ” 

If there was in Fred’s mind the involuntary, instinctive flash of a 
comparison between his good homely mother and pretty Effie, may 
it be forgiven him ! He could do nothing more than mutter a half- 
sulky word upon difference of taste. 

“ That’s true,” said his father; “one man’s meat is another man’s 
poison. My Lady Alicia’s not much to look at, but she is Lady 
Alicia; that’s always a point in her favor. But this little girl has 
nothing to show. Bread-and-butter, that’s all that can be said.” 

To this Fred, with gathering curves upon his forehead, made no 
reply at all. 

“ And her people are barely presentable,” said the father. “ I say 
this with no personal feeling, only for your good ; very Scotch, but 
nothing else about them to remember them by. A sodden, stagnant 
old Scotch squire, and a flippant middle-class mother, and I sup- 
pose a few pounds of her own that will make her think herself some- 
body. My dear fellow, there you have everything that is most objec- 


74 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


tionable. A milkmaid would not be half so bad, for she would 
ask no questions and understand that she got everything from 
you—” 

“There is no question of any milkmaid,” said Fred, in high of- 
fence. 

“Middle class is social destruction,” said Mr. Dirom. “ Annihi- 
lation, that’s what it is. High or low has some chance, but there’s no 
good in your milieu. Whatever happens, you’ll never be able to 
make anything out of her. They have no go in that position ; they’re 
too respectable to go out of the beaten way. That little thing, sir, 
will think it’s unbecoming to do this or that. She’ll never put out a 
step beyond what she knows. She’ll be no help to you if anything 
happens. She’ll set up her principles ; she’ll preach your duty to you. 
A pretty kind of wife for the son of a man who has made his way 
to the top of the tree, by Jove! and that may tumble down again 
some fine day.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Fred. “You might add 
she will most likely neither look nor listen to me, and all this ser- 
mon of yours will go for nought.” 

“I don’t mean it for a sermon. I give it you in friendship to 
warn you what’s before you. You think perhaps after this I’m go- 
ing to forbid the banns ; though there’s no banns wanted in this free 
country, I believe. No, Fred, that’s not it; I’m not going to inter- 
fere. If you like insipidity, it’s your own concern; if you choose a 
wife in order to carry her on your shoulders — and be well kicked 
while you do it; mind that.” 

“I think, sir,” said Fred, who had grown very red, “ that we had 
better drop the subject. If you mean to oppose, why, of course, you 
can oppose — but if not, this sort of thing does little good. It 
can never alter my mind, and I don’t see even how it can relieve 
yours.” 

“Oh, yes, it relieves mine,” said his father. “It shows you my 
opinion. After that, if you choose to take your own way, why, you 
must do it. I should have advised you to look out for a nice little 
fortune, which might have been a stand-by in case of anything hap- 
pening. No, nothing’s going to happen. Still you know — Or I’d 
have married rank (you might if you had liked), and secured a little 
family interest. Things might change in a day, at any moment. 
Jack might tire of his blue china and come and offer himself for the 


EFFIE OGTLYIE. 


75 


office. If he did, you have married against my advice, and Jack be- 
ing the eldest son — Well, I don’t need to say any more.” 

“I quite understand, sir,” Fred said. 

“ Well, that’s a good thing; but you need not go too far on the 
other side, and think I’m going to disinherit you, or any of that rub- 
bish. Did I disinherit Jack? I bring you up in the best way, 
spend no end of money on you, teach you to think yourself twice 
the man I am, and then you take your own way. ” 

“ Indeed, sir,” cried Fred, anxiously, “you are mistaken. I — ” 
But though he did not think he was twice the man his father was, 
yet he did think he was a very different man from his father, and 
this consciousness made him stammer and fall into confusion, not 
knowing what to say. 

“Don’t trouble yourself to contradict me,” said Mr. Dirom. “ I 
don’t think so. I think your father’s twice the man you are. Let 
each of us keep his opinion. We sha’n’t convince each other. And 
if you insist on marrying your insipidity, do. Tell the stupid old 
father to communicate with my lawyers about the settlements, and 
get it over as soon as you please.” 

“You are going a great deal too fast, sir,” said Fred. He was pale 
with the hurry and rapid discussion. “I can’t calculate like this 
upon what is going to happen. Nothing has happened as yet.” 

“You mean she mayn’t have you? Never fear; young fellows 
with a father behind them ain’t so common. Most men in my posi- 
tion would put a stop to it altogether. I don’t; what does it matter 
to me? Dirom & Co. don’t depend on daughters-in-law. A wom- 
an’s fortune is as nothing to what’s going through my hands every 
day. I say, let every man please himself. And you’ve got quiet 
tastes and all that sort of thing, Fred. Thinking of coming up to 
town to look after business a little? Well, don’t; there’s no need of 
you just now. I’ve got some ticklish operations on, but they’re 
things I keep in my own hands.” 

“I don’t pretend to be the business man you are,” said Fred, with 
a fervor which was a little fofced, “but if I could be of use — ” 

“No, I don’t think you could be of use. Go on with your love- 
making. By the way, I’m going back to-night. When is the train? 
I’ll just go in and mention it to your mother. I wanted to see what 
sort of a set you had about. Poor lot!” said Mr. Dirom, shaking 
his heavy chain as he looked at his watch. “Not a shilling to 


76 


EFFIE OGIL’VTE. 


spare among ’em, and thinking all the world of themselves. So do 
I? Yes; but then I’ve got something to stand upon. Money, my 
boy, that’s the only real power.” 

Phyllis and Doris met their brother anxiously on his way back. 

“ What is he going to do?” they both said; “what has he been talk- 
ing to you about? Have you got to give her up, you poor old 
Fred?” 

“I shouldn’t have given her up for a dozen governors; but he’s 
very good about it. Really to hear him you would think — He's 
perhaps better about it than I deserve. He’s going back to town by 
the fast train to-night.” 

“ To-night!” There was both relief and grievance in the tone of 
the girls. 

‘ ‘ He might just as well have gone this morning, and much more 
comfortable for him,” said Phyllis. 

“For us too,” said her sister, and the three stood together and in- 
dulged in a little guilty laugh which expressed the relief of their 
souls. “It is horrid of us, when he’s always so kind; but papa 
does not really enjoy the country, nor perhaps our society. He is 
always much happier when he’s in town and within reach of the 
club.” 

“And in the meantime we have got our diamonds.” 

“And I my freedom, ” said Fred; then he added, with a look of 
compunction, “I say, though, look here. He’s as good to us as he 
knows how, and we’re not just what you would call — ” 

“Grateful,” said both the sisters in a breath. Then they began 
to make excuses, each in her own way, 

“ We did not bring up ourselves. We ought to have got the sort 
of education that would have kept us in papa’s sphere. He should 
have seen to that; but he didn’t, Fred, as you know, and how can 
we help it? I am always as civil to him as it’s possible to be. If he 
were ill, or anything happened — by-the-bye, we are always saying 
now, ‘If anything happened;’ as if there was some trouble in the 
air.” * 

“It’s all right; you needn’t be superstitious. He is in the best of 
spirits, and says I am not wanted, and that he’s got some tremendous 
operation in hand.” 

“ I do not suppose you would make much difference, dear Fred, 
even if you were wanted,” said Miss Phyllis, sweetly. “Of course 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


77 


if ho were ill we should go to him wherever he was. If he should 
have an accident now, I could bind up his arteries, or foment his 
foot if he strained it. I have not got my ambulance certificate for 
nothing. But keeping very well and quite rampant, and richer 
than anybody, what could we do for him?” 

“ It’s the sentiment of the thing,” said Fred. 

“As if he ever thought of the sentiment; or minded anything 
about us.” 

They returned to the house in the course of this conversation, 
where already the servants had cleared the dining-room and re- 
placed it in its ordinary condition. Here Doris paused to tell the 
butler that dinner must be served early on account of her father’s 
departure; but her interference was received by that functionary 
with a bland smile, which rebuked the intrusion. 

“We have known it, miss, since master came,” a little speech 
which brought back the young people to their original state of ex- 
asperated satisfaction. 

“ You see!” the girls said, while even Fred while he laughed felt 
a prick of irritation. Williams the butler had a great respect for 
his master, a respect by no means general in such cases. He had 
served a duke in his day, but he had never met with any one who 
was so indifferent to every one else, so masterful and easy in his ego- 
tism, as his present gentleman. And that he himself should have 
known what Mr. Dirom’s arrangements were, while the children did 
not know, was a thing that pleased this regent of the household. 
It was putting things in their proper place. 

All the arrangements were made in the same unalterable, imperi- 
ous way. There was no hurry with Mr. Dirom. He dined and in- 
dulged in a great many remarks upon country people, whom he 
thought very small beer, he who was used to the best society. He 
would not in London have condescended to notice such people. 

But in the country, if the girls liked, and as there was nothing 
better to be had— “From time to time give them a good spread,” he 
said; “don’t mind what’s the occasion— a good spread, all the deli- 
cacies of the season ; that’s the sort of thing to do. Hang economy, 
that’s the virtue of the poor-proud. You’re not poor, thanks to me, 
and you have no call to be humble, chicks. Give it ’em grand, re- 
gardless of expense. As long as I’m there to pay, I like you to cut 
a figure. I like to feed ’em up and laugh in their faces. They’ll 


78 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


cull me vulgar, you bet. Never mind; what I like is to let them 
say it, and then make them knuckle under. Let ’em see you re rich 
— that’s what the beggars feel — and you’ll have every one of them, 
the best of them, on their knees. Pity is,” he added, after a while, 
“that there’s nobody here that is any good. Nothing marriage- 
able, eh, Phyll? Ah, well, for that fellow there, who might have 
picked up something better any day of his life; but nothing for you 
girls. Not so much as a bit of a young baronet, or even a Scotch 
squire. Nothing but the doctor; the doctor won’t do. Pm very in- 
dulgent, but there I draw the line. Do you hear, mother? No doc- 
tor. I’ll not stand the doctor — not till they’re forty at the least, 
and have got no other hope.” 

The girls sat pale, and made no reply. Their mother gave a feeble 
laugh, as in duty bound, and said, “That’s your fun, George.” 
Thus the propriety of Doris’s statement that they ought to have 
been brought up in papa’s sphere was made apparent; for in that 
case they would have laughed too ; whereas now they sat silent and 
pale, and looked at each other, with sentiments unutterable; fortu- 
nately the servants had gone away, but he was quite capable of hav- 
ing spoken before the servants. 

After dinner they waited with ill-restrained impatience the hour 
of the train. He had rarely made himself so offensive; he went on 
about the doctor, who would probably be their fate as they got near 
forty, with inexhaustible enjoyment, and elicited from their mother 
that little remonstrating laugh, which they forgave her for pity, 
saying to each other, “Poor mamma!” Decidedly it is much bet- 
ter when daughters, and sons too, for that matter, are brought up in 
their father’s sphere. He went away in great good-humor, refusing 
Fred’s offer to drive him to the station. 

“None of your dog-carts for me,” he said; “I’ve ordered the 
brougham. Good-bye girls; take care of yourselves, and try to 
rummage out something superior to that doctor. And, Fred, you’d 
better think better of it, my fine fellow, or, if you won’t be warned, 
do as you like, and be hanged to you. Good-bye, old lady; I ex- 
pect to hear you’ve got screwed up with rheumatism in this damp 
old den here.” 

“ And when will you come back, George? They say the weather 
is fine up to November. I hope you’ll soon come back.” 

“Not for some time, unless I should have worse luck,” said the 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


79 


rich man. He was at the door when he said this, his wife accom- 
panying him, while Fred stood outside with his hair blown about 
his eyes at the door of the brougham. The girls, standing behind, 
saw it all like a picture. Their father, still with his white waist- 
coat showing under his overcoat, his heavy chain glittering, and the 
beam and the roll of triumphant money in his eye and his gait — 
“Not soon, unless I have worse luck,” and he paused a moment 
and gave a comprehensive look around him with sudden gravity as 
he spoke. 

‘ ‘ Then there was a laugh, a good-bye, and the carriage rolled away, 
and they all stood for a moment looking out into the blackness of 
the night. 

“ What does he mean by worse luck?” they said to their mother 
as she came in from the door. 

“He means nothing; it is just his fun. He’s got the grandest 
operations in hand he has ever had. What a father you have got, 
girls! and to think he lets you do whatever you please, and keeps 
you rolling in wealth all the same 1” 


CHAPTER XL 


The day of the party at Allonby had been a day of pleasure to 
Effie, but of pleasure she was half afraid of and only half under- 
stood. The atmosphere about her had been touched by something 
beyond her experience — softened, brightened, glorified, she could 
not tell how. She did not understand it, and yet she did understand 
it, and this soft conflict between knowing and not knowing in- 
creased its magical effect. She was surrounded by that atmosphere 
of admiration, of adoration, which is the first romantic aspect of 
love-making. Everything in her and about her was so beautiful and 
lovely in the eyes of her young and undeclared lover that somehow, 
in spite of herself, this atmosphere got into her own eyes and affected 
her conception of herself. It was all an effect of fancy, unreal, not 
meaning, even to Fred Dirom, what it had seemed to mean. 

When love came to its perfection, when he had told it, and made 
sure of a return (if he was to have a return), then Fred too, or any, 
the most romantic of lovers, would so far return to common earth 
as to become aware that it was a woman and not a poetical angel 
whom he was about to marry. 

But at present fancy was supreme, and Effie was as no real creat- 
ure ever had been, lit up with the effulgence of a tender imagina- 
tion, even in her own consciousness. She was not vain, nor apt to 
take much upon herself ; neither was she by any means prepared to 
respond to the sentiment with which Fred regarded her. She did 
not look at him through that glorifying medium. But she became 
aware of herself through it in a bewildering, dazzling, incomprehen- 
sible way. Her feet trod the air, a suffusion of light seemed to be 
about her. It was a merely sympathetic effect, although she was 
the glorified object; but for the moment it was very remarkable and 
even sweet. 

“Well! it appears you were the queen of the entertainment, EflSe, 
for all so simple as you sit there,” said her stepmother. “I hope 
you were content.” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


81 


“Me!” said Effie, in those half-bewildered tones, conscious of it, 
yet incapable of acknowledging it. not knowing how it could be. 
She added, in a subdued voice, “They were all very kind,” blush- 
ing so deeply that her countenance and throat rose red out of her 
white frock. 

“ Her!” cried Mr. Ogilvie, still a little confused with the truffles; 
“what would she be the queen of the feast for, a little thing like 
that? I have nothing to say against you, Effle ; but there were many 
liner women there.” 

“Hold your tongue, Robert,” said his wife. “There may be 
some things on which you’re qualified to speak; but the looks of his 
own daughter, and her just turning out of a girl into a woman, is 
what no man can judge. You just can’t realize Effie as anything 
more than Effie. But I’ve seen it for a long time. That’s not the 
point of view from which she is regarded there.” 

“I know no other point of view,” he said, in his sleepy voice. 
“ You are putting rank nonsense into her head.” 

“Just you lean back in your corner and take a rest,” said Mrs. 
Ogilvie; “you’ve been exposed to the sun, and you’ve had heating 
viands and drinks instead of your good cup of tea; and leave Effie’s 
head to me. I’ll put nothing into it that should not be there.” 

“I think Effie’s head can take care of itself,” said the subject of 
the discussion, though iildeed if she had said the truth she would 
have acknowledged that the little head in question was in the con- 
dition which is popularly described as “ turned,” and not in a very 
fit condition to judge of itself. 

“It is easy to see that Mr. Dirom is a most liberal person,” said 
Mrs. Ogilvie, “ and spares nothing. I would not wonder if we were 
to see him at Gilston to-morrow. What for? Oh, just for civility, 
and to see your father. There might be business questions arising be- 
tween them; who can tell? And, Effie, I hope you’ll be reasonable, 
and not set yourself against anything that would be for your good.” 

“ I hope not,” said Effle, “ but I don’t know what it is that you 
think would be for my good.” 

“That is just what I am afraid of,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “that’s 
what young folk are always doing. I can remember myself, in my 
young days, the chances I threw away. Instead of seeing what’s in 
it as a real serious matter, you will consider it as a joke, as a thing 
to amuse yourself with. That is not what a reasonable person would 
6 


82 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


do. You’re young, to be sure, but you will not be always young; 
and it is just silly to treat in that light way what might be such a 
grand settlement for life.” 

“I wish,” cried Effle, reddening now with sudden anger — “oh, 
I wish you would — ” 

“ Mind my own business? But it is my own business. When I 
married your father it was one of the first of my duties to look after 
you, and consider your best interests. I hope I’ve always done my 
duty by you, Etfie. From seeing that your hair was cut regularly, 
which was just in a heart-breaking tangle about your shoulders 
when I came home to Gilston, to seeing you well settled, there is 
nothing I have had so much in my mind. Now don’t you make me 
any answer, for you will just say something you will regret. I 
shall never have grown-up daughters of my own, and if I were not 
to think of you I would be a most reprehensible person. All I 
have to ask of you is that you will not be a fool and throw away 
your advantages. You need not stir a finger. Just take things 
pleasantly and make a nice answer to them that ask, and everything 
else will come to your hand. Lucky girl that you are! Y'es, my 
dear, you are just a very lucky girl. Scarcely nineteen, and every- 
thing you can desire ready to drop into your lap. There is not one 
in a hundred that has a lot like that. There are many that might 
do not amiss but for some circumstances that’s against them; but 
there is no circumstance against you, and nothing that can harm 
you, unless just some nonsense fancy that you may take up at your 
own hand.” 

Thus Mrs. Ogilvic ran on during the drive home. After one or 
two murmurs of protest Effle fell into silence, preferring, as she often 
did, the soft current of her own thoughts to the weary words of her 
stepmother, who indeed was by no means unaccustomed to carry 
on a monologue of this description, in which she gave forth a 
great many sentiments that were a credit to her, and gave full inti- 
mation, had any attention been paid to her, of various plans which 
were hotly but ineffectually objected to when she carried them out. 

Mr. Ogilvie in his corner, wdiat with his truffles and the unusual 
fatigue of an afternoon spent in the midst of a crowd, and the fa- 
miliar lullaby of his wife’s voice, and the swift motion of the horses 
glad to get home, had got happily and composedly to sleep. And 
if Eflie did not sleep, she did what was better. She allowed herself 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


83 


to float away on a dreamy tide of feeling, which, indeed, was partly 
caused by Fred Dirom’s devotion, yet was not responsive to it, nor 
implied any enchantment of her own in which he held a leading 
place. She mused, but not of Fred. The pleasure of life, of youth, 
of the love shown to her, of perhaps, though it is a less admirable 
sentiment, gratified vanity, buoyed her up and carried her along. 

No doubt it was gratified vanity; yet it was something more. 
The feeling that we are admired and beloved has a subtle delight in 
it, breathing soft and warm into the heart, which is more than a 
vain gratification. It brings a conviction that the world, so good to 
us, is good and kind to its core — that there is a delightful communi- 
cation with all lovely things possible to humanity to which we now 
have got the key, that we are entering into our heritage, and that the 
beautiful days are dawning for us that dawn upon all in their time, 
in their hour and place. 

This, perhaps, has much to do with the elevation and ecstasy even 
of true love. Without love at all on her own part, but only the reflect- 
ed glow of that which shone from her young lover, who had not, as 
yet, breathed a word to her of hopes or of wishes, this soft, uprising 
tide, this consciousness of a new existence, caught Elfie now. She 
ceased to pay any attention to her stepmother, whose wise words 
floated away upon the breezes, and perhaps got diffused into nature, 
and lielped fo replenish that stock of wisdom which the quiet and 
silence garner up to transmit to fit listeners in their time. Some 
other country girl, perhaps, going out into the fields to ask herself 
what she should do in similar circumstances, got the benefit of those 
counsels, adjuring her to abandon fancy and follow the paths of pru- 
dence, though they floated over Effie’s head and made no impression 
on her dreaming soul. 

This vague and delightful period lasted without being broken by 
anything definite for some time longer. The Dirom family in gen- 
eral had been checked and startled, they could scarcely tell how, by 
the visit of the father. Not that its abruptness surprised them, or 
its brevity, to both of which things they were accustomed. No one 
indeed could define what was the cause, or indeed what was exactly 
tlie effect. It did not reach the length of anxiety or alarm, and it was 
not produced by any special thing which he had done or said ; but 
yet they were checked, made uncomfortable, they could not tell why. 

Mrs. Dirom herself retired to her room and cried, though she 


84 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


would not or could not give any reason for it; and the young people, 
though none of their pursuits had been blamed by their father, tac- 
itly by one impulse paused in them, renouncing their most cherished 
habits, though with no cause they knew. 

The same indefinite check weighed upon Fred. He had received, 
to his own surprise, full license from his father to do as he pleased, 
and make his own choice, a permission indeed which he had fully 
calculated upon — for Mr. Dirom’s sentiment of wealth was such that 
he had always persistently scoffed at the idea of a wife’s fortune be- 
ing any special object on the part of his sons — but which he had not 
expected to receive without asking for it, without putting forth his 
reasons, in this prodigal way. 

But Fred did not at once take advantage of this permission to 
please himself. Perhaps the mere fact that his father took it so en- 
tirely for granted gave the subject greater gravity and difficulty in 
the eyes of the son, and he became doubtful in proportion as the 
difficulties seemed smoothed away. He did not even see Effie for 
some days after. The first touch of winter came with the beginning 
of October, and tennis became a thing of the past. Neither was 
there much pleasure to be had either in walks or rides. The outside 
world grew dark, and to the discouraged and disturbed family it 
was almost an advantage to shut themselves up for a day or two, to 
gather round the fire, and, either mutely or by implication, consult 
with each other, and question that Sphinx of the future which gives 
no reply. 

When this impression began to wear off, and the natural course of 
life was resumed, Fred found another obstacle to the promotion of 
his suit. Effie gave him no rebuff, showed no signs oPdislike or dis- 
pleasure, but smiled to meet him, "with a soft color rising over her 
face, which many a lover would have interpreted to mean the most 
flattering things. But with all this Fred felt a certain atmosphere 
of abstraction about her which affected him, though his feelings 
were far from abstract. He had a glimmering of the truth in re- 
spect to her, such as onl}^ a fairly sympathetic nature and the per- 
fect sincerity of his mind could have conveyed to him. 

The girl was moved, he felt, by love, by something in the air, by 
an ethereal sentiment— but not by him. She felt his love, thrilling 
somehow sympathetically the delicate strings of her being, but did 
not share the passion. This stopped him in the strangest way, re- 


EFFIE OGILYIE. 


85 


acting upon him, taking the words from his lips. It was too delicate 
for words. It seemed to him that even a definite breath of purpose, 
much more the vulgar question. Will you marry me? would have 
broken the spell. And thus a little interval passed which was not 
without its sweetness. The nature of their intercourse changed a 
little. It became less easy, yet almost more familiar; instead of the 
lawns, the tennis, the walk through the glen, the talk of Doris and 
Phyllis for a background, it was now in Gilston chiefiy that he met 
Effie. He came upon all possible and impossible errands, to bring 
books or to borrow them, to bring flowers from the conservatories, 
or grapes and peaches, or grouse; to consult Mr. Ogilvie about the 
little farm, of which he kne^v nothing, or any other pretext that oc- 
curred to him. And then he would sit in the homely drawing-room 
at Gilston the whole afternoon through, while Effie did her needle- 
work, or arranged the flowers, or brought out the dessert dishes for 
the fruit, or carried him, a pretty handmaiden, his cup of tea. 

“ Now just sit still,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “ and let Effie serve you. 
A woman should always hand the tea. You’re fine for heavier 
things, but tea is a girl’s business.” 

And Fred sat in bliss, and took that domestic nectar from the 
hand of Effie, standing sweetly with a smile before him, and felt 
himself grow nearer and nearer, and j^et still farther and farther 
away. 

This state of affairs did not satisfy Mrs. Ogilvie at all. She asked 
herself sometimes whether Fred, after all, was trifling with Effie? 
whether it was possible that he might be amusing himself? whether 
her father should interfere? This excellent woman was well aware 
that to get Effie’s father to interfere was about as likely as that 
good Glen, sweeping his mighty tail, should stop Fred upon the 
threshold and ask him what were his intentions. But then “ her 
father ” meant, of course, her father’s wife, and the lady herself felt 
no reluctance, if Effie’s interest required it, to take this step. 

Her objects were various. In the first place, as a matter of prin- 
ciple, she had a rooted objection to shilly-shally in a question of this 
kind. She had the feeling that her own prospects had suffered from 
it, as many women have; and though Mrs. Ogilvie had not suffered 
much, and was very well satisfied on the whole with her life, still 
she might, she felt, have married earlier and married better but for 
the senseless delays of the man in more cases than one. 


86 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


From a less abstract point of view she desired the question to be 
settled in Effle’s interests, feeling sure both that Fred was an excel- 
lent parti, and that he was that highly desirable thing, a good 
young man. Perhaps a sense that to have the house to herself, 
without the perpetual presence of a grown-up stepdaughter, might 
be an advantage, had a certain weight with her; but a motive which 
had much greater weight was the thought of the triumph of thus 
marrying Effle — who was not even her own, and for whom her ex- 
ertions would be recognized as disinterested — in this brilliant man- 
ner at nineteen, a triumph greater than any which had been achieved 
by any mother in the county since the time when May Caerlaverock 
married an English duke. None of these, it will be perceived, were 
sordid reasons, and Mrs. Ogilvie had no need to be ashamed of any 
of them. The advantage of her husband’s daughter was foremost in 
her thoughts. 

But with all this in her, it may well be believed that Mrs. Ogilvie 
was very impatient of the young people’s delays, of the hours that 
Fred wasted in the Gilston drawing-room without ever coming to 
the point, and of the total want of any anxiety or desire that he 
should come to the point, on the part of Effle. 

“ He will just let the moment pass,” this excellent woman said to 
herself as she sat and frowned, feeling that she gave them a hundred 
opportunities of w'hich they took no heed, which they did not even 
seem to be conscious of. 

It was all she could do, she said afterwards, to keep her hands off 
them! the two silly things! just playing with their fate. She was 
moved almost beyond her power of self-control, and would sit quiv- 
ering with the desire to hasten matters, ready every time she opened 
her lips to address them on the subject, while Fred took his tea with 
every appearance of calm, and Effle served him as if in a dream. 

“ Oh, ye two silly things!” this was what was on her lips twenty 
times in an afternoon ; and she would get up and go out of the room, 
partly lest she should betray herself, partly that he might have an op- 
portunity. But it was not till about the end of October, on a dusky 
afternoon after a day of storm and rain, that Fred found his oppor- 
tunity, not when Mrs. Ogilvie, but when Effle, happened to be absent, 
for it was, after all, to the elder lady, not to the younger, that he at 
length found courage to speak. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ Mrs. Ogilvie, may I say a word to you?” he asked. 

“ Dear me, Mr. Fred, a hundred if you like. I am just always 
ready to listen to what my friends have to say.” 

Which was true enough, but with limitations, and implied the pos- 
sibility of finding an opening a somewhat difficult process. She 
made a very brief pause, looking at him, and then continued, “It 
will be something of importance? I am sure I am flattered that you 
should make a confidante of me.” 

“ It is something of a great deal of importance— to me. I am go- 
ing to ask you as a kind friend, which you have always shown your- 
self—” 

“Hoots,” said the lady, “I’ve had nothing in my power. But 
what will it be? for though I have the best will in the world, and 
would do anything to serve you, I cannot think what power I have 
to be of any use, or what I can do.” 

“Oh, of the greatest use. Tell me first,” cried the young man, 
who had risen up and was standing before her with an evident 
tremor about him, “shall I have time to tell you everything? is 
Miss Effle coming back directly? will she soon be here?” 

Mrs. Ogilvie felt as if her senses were abandoning her. It was 
evident he wanted Effie to stay away in order that he might reveal 
something to her. Dear, what could it be? Was it possible that 
she had been mistaken all through? was it possible—? Mrs. Ogilvie 
was not a vain woman, but the circumstances were such as to con- 
fuse the clearest head. 

“ She has gone up to the manse to her Uncle John’s. Well, I 
would not wonder if she was half an hour away. But, Mr. Dirom, 
you will excuse me, I would sooner have believed you wanted me 
out of the way than Effie. I could have imagined you had some- 
thing to say to her; but me!” 

“Ah, that is just it,” said Fred, “ I feel as if I dared not. I want 
you to tell me, dear Mrs. Ogilvie, if it is any good. She is— well, 


88 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


not cold— she is always sweetness itself. But I feel as if I were kept 
at a distance, as if nothing of that sort had ever approached her — no 
idea — Other girls laugh about marriage and lovers and so forth, 
but she never. I feel as if I should shock her, as if — ” 

“ Then it is about EfBe that you want to speak?” 

He was so full of emotion that it was only by a nod of his head 
that he could reply. 

“You know this is just an extraordinary kind of proceeding,” Mr. 
Fred. “ It’s a thing nobody thinks of doing. She will perhaps not 
like it, for she has a great deal of spirit — that you should first have 
spoken to me.” 

“ It is in Inany parts of the world the right thing to do. I — didn’t 
know—” 

“Oh, it is just a very right thing, no doubt, in principle; but a 
girl would perhaps think— Well, you must just say your mind, and 
I will help you if I can. It may he something different from what 
I expect.” 

“What could it he, Mrs. Ogilvie? I have loved her since the 
first moment I saw her. When I lifted the curtain and my eyes 
fell upon that fair creature, so innocent, so gentle! I have never 
thought of any one in the same way. My fate was decided in that 
moment. Do you think there is any hope for me?” 

“Hope!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “well, I must say I think you are a 
very humble-minded young man.” 

He came up to her and took her hand and kissed it. He was full 
of agitation. 

“I am in no way worthy of such happiness. Humble-minded— 
oh, no, I am not humble-minded. But Effie — tell me, has she ever 
spoken of me, has she said anything to make you think — has she — ” 

“My dear Mr. Fred, of course we have spoken of you many a 
time; not that I would say she ever said anything; oh, no,- she 
would not say anything. She is shy by nature, and shyer than I 
could wish with me. But, dear me, how is it likely she would be 
insensible? You’ve been so devoted that everybody has seen it. Oh, 
yes, I expected — And how could she help but see? She has never 
met with anybody else, she is just fresh from the nursery and the 
school-room and has never had such a notion presented to her mind. 
It would be very strange to me, just out of all possibility, that she 
should refuse such an offer.” 


EFFTE OGILVIE. 


89 


The pang of pleasure which had penetrated Fred’s being was here 
modified by a pang of pain. He shrank a little from these words. 
This was not how he regarded his love. He cried anxiously, “Don’t 
say that. If you think it is possible that she may learn to — love 
me—” 

“And why not?” said this representative of all that was straight- 
forward and commonplace. “There is nobody before you, that is 
one thing I can tell you. There was a young man — a boy I might 
say — but I would never allow her to hear a word about it. No, no, 
there is nobody— you may feel quite free to speak.” 

“You make me— very happy,” he said, but in a tone by no means 
so assured as his words. Then he added, hesitating, ‘ ‘ Perhaps I 
should not ask more; but if she had ever shown — oh, I am sure you 
must know what I mean — any interest — any — ” 

“Toots!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “am I going to betray a bit girlie’s 
secrets, even if I knew them. One thing, she will not perhaps be 
pleased that you have spoken to me. I am but her stepmother when 
all is said. Her father is in the library, and he is the right person. 
Just you step across the passage and have a word with him. That 
will be far more to the purpose than trying to get poor Effie’s secrets 
out of me.” 

“But Mrs. Ogilvie — ” cried Fred. 

“1 will just show you the way. It would be awkward if she 
found you here with me with that disturbed look; but her father 
is another matter altogether. Now, don’t be blate, as we say 
here. Don’t be too modest. Just go straight in and tell him — 
Robert, here is Mr. Fred Dirom that is wishful to have a word with 
you.” 

Fred followed, altogether taken by surprise. He was not in the 
least “wishful” to have a word with Mr. Ogilvie. He wanted to 
find out from a sympathetic spectator whether EflSe’s virginal 
thoughts had ever turned towards him, whether he might tell his 
tale without alarming her, without perhaps compromising his own 
interests; but his ideas had not taken the practical form of definite 
proposals, or an interview with the father. Not that Fred had the 
slightest intention of declaring his love without offering himself fully 
for Effie’s acceptance ; but to speak of his proposal, and to commit 
him to a meeting of this sort before he knew anything of Effie’s 
sentiments, threw a business air, which was half ludicrous and half 


90 


EFFIE OGTLVrE. 


horrible, over the little tender romance. But what can a jmung 
man do in such absurd circumstances? Mrs. Ogilvie did not ask his 
opinion. She led the way, talking in her usual full, round voice, 
which filled the house. 

“Just come away,” she said. “ To go to headquarters is always 
the best, and then your mind will be at ease. As for objections on 
her part, I will not give them a thought. You may be sure a young 
creature of that age, that has never had a word said to her, is very 
li tle likely to object. And ye can just settle with her father. 
Robert, I am saying this is Mr. Dirom come to say a word to you. 
Just leave Rory to himself; he can amuse himself very well if you 
take no notice. And he is as safe as the kirk steeple, and will take 
no notice of you.” 

“ Fm sure I’m very glad to see Mr. Dirom— at any time,” said Mr. 
Ogilvie; but it was not a propitious moment. The room in which 
he sat, and which was called the library, was a dreary, dark, gray 
room with a few bookcases, and furniture of a dingy kind. The old 
arm-chairs, when they were discarded from other regions, found their 
way there, and stood about harshly, like so many old gentlemen, 
with an air of twirling their thumbs and frowning at intruders. But 
to-day these old fogeys in mahogany were put to a use to which 
indeed they were not unaccustomed, but which deranged all the 
previous habitudes of a lifetime. They were collected in the middle 
of the room to form an imaginary stage-coach with its steeds, four 
in hand, driven with much cracking of his whip and pulling of the 
cords attached to the unyielding old backs, by Master Rory, seated 
on high in his white pinafore, and gee-wo-ing and chirruping like an 
experienced coachman. Mr. Ogilvie himself, with much appropriate 
gesture, was at the moment of Fred’s entry riding, as postilion, the 
leader, which had got disorderly. The little drama required that 
he should manifest all the alarm of a rider about to be thrown off, 
and this he was doing with much demonstration when the door 
opened. 

Fred thought that if anything could have added to the absurdity 
of his own position it was this. Mr. Ogilvie was, on ordinary occa- 
sions, very undemonstrative; a grave, leathern- jawed senior, who 
spoke little and looked somewhat frowningly upon the levities of 
existence. He got off his horse, so to speak, with much confusion 
as the stranger came in. 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


91 


“You see,” he said, apologetically— but for the moment said no 
more. 

“Oh, yes, we see. Rory, ye’ll tumble off that high seat; how have 
ye got so high a seat? Bless me, ye’ll have a fall if ye don’t take care. ” 

“You see,” continued Mr. Ogilvie, “the weather has been wet 
' and the little fellow has not got his usual exercise. At that age they 
must have exercise. You’ll think it’s not very becoming for a man 
of my age—” 

“ Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “ what does it matter about your age? 
You are just a father whatever age you are, and Mr. Dirom will 
think no worse of you for playing with your own little child. Come, 
Rory, come, my wee man, and leave papa to his business.” 

“No, I’ll no go!” shouted the child. “We’re thust coming in to 
the inn, and all the passengers will get out o’ the coach. Pappa, 
pappa, the off leader, she’s runned away. Get hold o’ her, get hold 
o’ her; she’ll upset the coach.” 

Fred looked on with unsympathetic eyes while the elderly pseudo- 
postilion, very shamefaced, made pretence of arresting the runaway 
steed, which bore the sedate form of a mahogany arm-chair. 

“You will just excuse me,” he said, “till the play’s played out. 
There, now, Rory, fling your reins to the hostler, and go in and get 
your dram — which means a chocolate sweetie,” he added, to forestall 
any reproof. 

If Rory’s father had been a great personage, or even if being only 
Mr. Ogilvie of Gilston he had been Rory’s grandfather, the situation 
would have been charming; but as he was neither, and very com- 
monplace and elderly, the tableau was spoiled. (“Old idiot,” the 
Miss Dempsters would have said, “making a fool of a bairn that 
should have been his son’s bairn, and neglecting his own lawful chil- 
dren, at his age!” The sentiment was absurd, but Fred shared it.) 
Perhaps it was the unrelaxing countenance of the young man, as 
Mrs. Ogilvie seized and carried off the charioteer which made the 
poor papa so ill at ease. He pulled the chairs apart with an uneasy 
smile and gave one to his visitor. 

“ No, I am not ashamed of it,” he said, “but I dare say I would 
look ridiculous enough to a stranger;” and with this he sat down be- 
fore his table, on which, am'id the writing things, were a child’s 
trumpet and other articles belonging to a person of very tender 
years. “And in what can I be of use to you?” he asked. 


92 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


It was Fred’s turn to grow red. He had been led into this snare 
against his will. He felt rather disgusted, rather angry. 

“ I don’t know,” he said, “that it was anything calling for your 
attention to-day. It was a matter — still undecided. I should not 
have disturbed you— at a moment of relaxation.” 

“ Oh, if that is all,” said Mr. Ogilvie, with a smile, “ I have Rory 
always, you know. The little pickle is forever on my hands. He 
likes me better than the weemen, because I spoil him more, my wife 
says. ” 

Having said this with effusion, the good man awoke once more to 
the fact that his audience was not with him, and grew dully red. 

“ I am entirely at your service now,” he said; “would it be any- 
thing about the wheat? Your grieve is, no doubt, a very trust- 
worthy man, but I would not leave your fields longer uncut if I was 
you. There is no sun now to do them any good.” 

“Thanks, very much,” said Fred, “ it was not about the wheat—” 

“Or perhaps the state of the woods? There will be a good deal 
of pruning required, but it will be safest to have the factor over, and 
do nothing but what he approves.” 

“ If'was not about the woods. It was an entirely personal ques- 
tion. Perhaps another day would be more appropriate. I have lost 
the thread of what I was going to say.” 

“Dear me,” said the good man, “ that’s a pity. Is there nothing 
that I can suggest, I wonder, to bring it back to your mind?” 

He looked so honestly solicitous to know what the difficulty was 
that Fred’s irritation was stayed. An embarrassment of another 
kind took possession of hiin. 

“Mr. Ogilvie,” he said, “I don’t know why I should have come 
to you, for indeed I have no authority. I have come to ask you for 
what I am sure you will not give, unless I have another consent first. 
It is about your daughter that I want to speak.” 

Mr. Ogilvie opened his eyes a little and raised himself in his seat. 

“Ay!” he said, “and what will it be about Effie?” 

He had observed nothing, seeing his mind was but little occupied 
with Effie. To be sure, his wife had worried him with talk about 
this young fellow, but he had long accustomed himself to hear a 
great deal that his wife said without paying any attention. He had 
an understanding that there could be only one way in which Fred 
Dirom could have anything to say to him about his daughter; but 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


93 


still, though he had heard a good deal of talk on the subject, it was 
a surprise. 

“ Sir,” said Fred, collecting himself, “I have loved her since the 
first time I saw her, I want to know whether I have your permis- 
sion to speak to Miss Ogilvie— to tell her — ” 

Poor Fred was very truly and sincerely in love. It was horrible 
to him to have to discourse on the subject and speak these words 
which he should have breathed into Effie’s ear to this dull old gen- 
tleman. So strange a travesty of the scene which he had so often 
tenderly figured to himself filled him with confusion, and took from 
him all power of expressing himself. 

“This is very important, Mr. Dirom,” said Effle’s father, straight- 
ening himself out, 

“ It is very important to me,” cried the young man; “ all my hopes 
are involved in it, my happiness for life.” 

“Yes, it’s very important,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “ if I’m to take this, 
as I suppose, as a proposal of marriage to Etfie, She is young, and 
you are but young for that responsibility; and you will understand, 
of course, that I would never force her inclinations.” 

“Good heavens, sir,” cried the young fellow, starting to his feet, 
“what do you take me for? — do you think that I — I — ” 

“No, no,” said Mr. Ogilvie, shaking his gray head. “ Sit down, 
my young friend. There could be no such thing as forcing her in- 
clinations; but otherwise, if your good father and mother approve, 
there would not, so far as I can see, be any objections on our part. 
No, so far as I can see, there need be no objection. I should like to 
have an opportunity of talking it over with my wife. And Effie 
herself would naturally require to be consulted; but with these little 
preliminaries — I have heard nothing but good of you, and I cannot 
see that there would be any objections on our part.” 

At this point the door opened quickly, and Mrs. Ogilvie came in. 

“Well,” she said, “ I hope ye have got it over and settled every- 
thing; for, Mr. Fred, Effie is just coming down from the manse, 
and I thought you would perhaps like to see her, not under my 
nose, as people say, but where ye could have a little freedom. If ye 
hurry you will meet her where the road strikes off into the little 
wood, and that’s a nice little roundabout, where a great deal can be 
got through. But come away, ye must not lose a moment; and 
afterwards ye can finish your talk with papa.” 


94 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


If Fred could have disappeared through the dingy old carpet, if 
he could have melted into thin air, there would have been no more 
seen of him in Gilston House that day. But he could not escape his 
fate. He was hurried along to a side door, where Mrs. Ogilvie 
pointed out to him the little path by which Efiie would certainly re- 
turn home. She almost pushed him out into the waning afternoon 
to go and tell his love. 

When he heard the door close behind him and felt himself free 
and in the open world, Fred for a moment had the strongest im- 
pulse on his mind to fly. The enthusiasm of his youthful love 
had been desecrated by all these odious prefaces, his tender dreams 
had been dispelled. How could he say to Effle in words fit for her 
hearing what he had been compelled to say to those horrible people 
to whom she belonged, and to hear resaid by them in their still 
more horrible way? He stood for a moment uncertain whether to 
go on or turn and fly — feeling ashamed, outraged, irritated. It 
seemed an insult to Effle to carry that soiled and desecrated story 
for her hearing now. 

But just then she appeared at the opening of the road, uncon- 
scious, coming sweetly along, in maiden meditation, a little touched 
whli dreams. The sight of her produced another revolution in 
Fred’s thoughts. Could it be for him, that soft mist that was in her 
eyes? He went forward, with his heart beating, to meet her and 
his fate. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


Effie came towards him smiling, without appreheusion. The 
atmosphere out-of-doors had not the same consciousness, the same 
suggestion in it which was inside. A young man’s looks, which 
may be alarming within the concentration of four walls, convey no 
fear and not so much impression in the fresh wind blowing from 
the moors and the openness of the country road. To be sure, it w^as 
afternoon and twilight coming on, which is always a witching hour. 

He stood at the corner of the bywa}'- waiting for her as she came 
along, light-footed, in her close-fitting tweed dress, which made a 
dim setting to the brightness of her countenanee. She had a little 
basket in her hand. She had been carrying a dainty of some kind 
to somebody who was ill. The wind in her face had brightened 
everything, her color, her eyes, and even had, by a little tossing, 
found out some gleams of gold in the brownness of her hair. She 
was altogether sweet and fair in Fred’s eyes — a creature embodying 
everything good and wholesome, everything that was simple and pure. 
She had a single rose in her hand, which she held up as she advanced. 

“We are not like you, we don’t get roses all the year round; but 
here is one, the last,” she said, “from Uncle John’s south wall.” 

It was not a highly-cultivated, scentless rose, such as the gardens 
at Allonby produced by the hundred, but one that was full of fra- 
grance, sweet as all roses once were. The outer leaves had been a 
little caught by the frost, but the heart was warm with life and 
sweetness. She held it up to him, but did not give it to him, as at 
first he thought she was going to do. 

“I would rather have that one,” he cried, “than all the roses 
which we get all the year round.” 

“Because it is so sweet?” said Effie. “Yes, that is a thing that 
revenges the poor folk. You can make the roses as big as a child’s 
head, but for sweetness the little old ones in the cottage gardens 
are alwa3'^s the best.” 

“Everything is sweet, I think, that is native here.” 

“ Oh!” said Effie, with a deep breath of pleasure, taking the com- 


X 


96 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


pliment as it sounded, not thinking of herself in it. “I am glad 
to hear you say that! for I think so too — the clover, and the heather, 
and the hawthorn, and the meadow-sweet. There is a sweet-brier 
hedge at the manse that Uncle John is very proud of. When it is 
in blossom he always brings a little rose of it to me.” 

“Then I wish I might have that rose,” the young lover said. 

“From the sweet-brier? They are all dead long ago; and I can- 
not give you this one, because it is the last. Does winter come 
round sooner here, Mr. Dirom, than in — the South?” 

What Effie meant by the South was no more than England — a 
country, according to her imagination, in which the sun blazed, and 
where the climate in summer was almost more than honest Scotch 
veins could bear. That was not Fred’s conception of the South. 

He smiled in a somewhat imbecile way, and replied, “Everything 
is best here. Dark and true and tender is the North; no, not dark, 
that is a mistake of the poet. Fair and sweet and true, is what he 
ought to have said.” 

“There are many dark people as well as fair in Scotland,” said 
EfRe; “ people think we all have yellow hair. There is Uncle John, 
he is dark and true and tender — and our Eric. You don’t know 
our Eric, Mr. Dirom?” 

“ 1 hope I shall some day. I am looking forward to it. Is he 
like you. Miss EfiSe?” 

“ Oh, he is dark. I was telling you; and Ronald — I think we are 
just divided like other people, some fair, some — ” 

“And who is Ronald? another brother?” 

“ Oh, no; only a friend, in the same regiment.” 

EfRe’s color rose a little, not that she meant anything, for what 
was Ronald to her? But yet there had been that reference of the 
Miss Dempsters which she had not understood, and which somehow 
threw Ronald into competition with Fred Dirom, so that Eflie, with- 
out knowing it, blushed. Then she said, with a vague idea of mak- 
ing up to him for some imperceptible injury, “ Have you ever gone 
through our little wood?” 

“lam hoping,” said Fred, “ that you will take me there now.” 

“ But the gloaming is coming on,” said Eflie, “and the wind will 
be wild among the trees — the leaves are half off already, and the 
winds seem to shriek and tear them, till every branch shivers. In 
the autumn it is a little eerie in the wood.” ' 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


97 


“What does eerie mean? but I think I know; and nothing could 
be eerie,” said Fred, half to himself, “ while you are there.” 

Effie only half heard the words; she was opening the little postern 
gate, and could at least pretend to herself that she had not heard 
them. She had no apprehensions, and the young man’s society was 
pleasant enough. To be worshipped is pleasant. It makes one 
so much more disposed to think well of one’s self. 

‘ ‘ Then come away, ” she said, holding the gate open, turning to 
him with a smile of invitation. Her bright face looked brighter 
against the background of the trees, which were being dashed about 
against an ominous, colorless sky. All was threatening in the 
heavens, dark and sinister, as if a catastrophe were coming, which 
made the girl’s bright, tranquil face all the more delightful. How 
was it that she did not see his agitation? At the crisis of a long 
alarm there comes a moment when fear goes altogether out of the mind. 

If Eflie had been a philosopher she might have divined that dan- 
ger was near merely from the curious serenity and quiet of her heart. 
The wooden gate swung behind them. They walked into the dim- 
ness of the wood side by side. The wind made a great sighing high 
up in the branches of the fir-trees, like a sort of instrument — an 
Eolian harp of deeper compass than any shrieking strings could be. 
The branches of the lower trees blew about. There was neither the 
calm nor the sentiment that were conformable to a love tale. On 
the contrary, hurry and storm were in the air, a passion more akin 
to anger than to love. Effie liked those great vibrations and the 
rushing flood of sound. But Fred did not hear them. He was 
carried along by an impulse which was stronger than the wind. 

‘ ‘ Miss Ogilvie, ” he said, ‘ ‘ I have been talking to your father — I 
have been asking his permission — Perhaps I should not have gone 
to him first. Perhaps— It was not by my own impulse altogether. 
I should have wished first to — But it appears that here, as in for- 
eign countries, it is considered — the best way.” 

Effie looked up at him with great surprise, her pretty eyebrows 
arched, but no sense of special meaning as yet dawning in her eyes. 

“My father?” she said, wondering. 

Fred was not skilled in love-making. It had always been a thing 
he had wished, to feel himself under the influence of a grand passion ; 
but he had never arrived at it till now ; and all the little speeches which, 
no doubt, he had prepared failed him in the genuine force of feeling. 
7 


98 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


He stammered a little, looked at her glowing with tremulous emo- 
tion, then burst forth suddenly, “ Oh, Effie, forgive me; I cannot go 
on in that way. This is just all, that I’ve loved you ever since that 
first moment at Allonby when the room was so dark. I could scarce- 
ly see you in your white dress. Effie ! it is not that I mean to be bold, 
to presume — I can’t help it. It has been from the first moment. I 
shall never be happy unless— unless — ” 

Pie put his hand quickly, furtively, with a momentary touch upon 
hers which held the rose, and then stood trembling to receive his 
sentence. Effie understood at last. She stood still for a moment 
panic-stricken, raising bewildered eyes to his. When he touched her 
hand she started and drew a step away from him, but found nothing 
better to say than a low, frightened exclamation, “ Oh, Mr. Fred!” 

“I have startled you. I know I ought to have begun differently, 
not to have brought it out all at once. But how could I help it? 
Effie! won’t you give me a little hope? Don’t you know what I 
mean? Don’t you know what I want? Oh, Effie! I am much 
older than you are, and I have been about the world a long time, but 
I have never loved any one but you.” 

Effie did not look at him now. She took her rose in both her 
hands and fixed her eyes upon that. 

“You are very kind, you are too, too— I have done nothing that 
you should think so much of me, ” she said. 

“ Done nothing? I don’t want you to do anything; you are your- 
self, that is all. I want you to let me do everything for you. Effie, 
you understand, don’t you, what I mean?” 

“Yes,” she said, “ I think I understand; but I have not thought of 
it like that. I have only thought of you as a — ” 

Here she stopped, and her voice sank, getting lower and lower as 
she breathed out the last monosyllable. As a friend, was that what 
she was going to say? And was it true? Effie was too sincere to 
finish the sentence. It had not been quite as a friend; there had 
been something in the air. But she was in no position to reply to 
this demand he made upon her. It was true that she had not 
thought of it. It had been about her in the atmosphere, that was all. 

“I know,’* he said, breaking in eagerly. “I did not expect 
you to feel as I do. There was nothing in me to seize your atten- 
tion. Oh, I am not disappointed— I expected no more. You thought 
of me as a friend. Well! and I want to be the closest of friends. 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


99 


Isn’t that reasonable? Only let me go on trying to please you. 
Only, only try to love me a little, Effie. Don’t you tliiuk you could 
like a poor fellow who wants nothing so much as to please you?” 

Fred was very much in earnest; there was a glimmer in his eyes, 
his face worked a little; there was a smile of deprecating, pleading 
tenderness about his mouth which made his lip quiver. He was 
eloqueut in being so sincere. Effie gave a furtive glance up at him 
and was moved. But it was love and not Fred that moved her. She 
was profoundly affected, almost awe-stricken at the sight of that, 
but not at the sight of him. 

“ Oh,” she said, “ I like you already very much; but that is not — 
that is not — it is not — the same — ” 

“No,” he said, “ it is not the same, it is very different; but I shall 
be thankful for that, hoping for more. If you will only let me go 
on, and let me hope.” 

Effie knew no reply to make; her heart was beating, her head 
swimming; they went on softly under the waving boughs a few steps, 
as in a dream. Then he suddenly took her hand with the rose in it, 
and kissed it, and took the flower from her fingers, which trembled 
under the novelty of that touch. 

“You will give it to me now, for a token,” he said, with a catch- 
ing of his breath. 

Effie drew away her hand, but she left him the rose. She was in 
a tremor of sympathetic excitement and emotion. How could she 
refuse to feel when he felt so much? but she had nothing to say to 
him. So long as he asked no more than this there seemed no reason 
to thwart him, to refuse— what? he had not asked for anything, 
only that she should like him, which, indeed, she did; and that he 
mi gilt try to please her. To please her ! She was not so hard to please. 
She scarcely heard what he went on to say, in a flood of hasty words, 
with many breaks, and looks which she was conscious of, but did not 
resent. He seemed to be telling her about herself, how sweet she was, 
how true and good, what a happiness to know her, to be near her, to be 
permitted to walk by her side as he was doing. Effie heard it and did 
not hear, walking on in her dream, feeling that it was not possible any 
one could form such extravagant ideas of her, inclined to laugh, half- 
inclined to cry, in a strange enchantment which she could not break. 

She heard her own voice say, after a while, “ Oh, no, no— oh, no, 
no— that is all wrong. I am not like that, it cannot be me you are 


100 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


meaning.” But this protest floated away upon the air, and was un- 
real like all the rest. As for Fred, he was in an enchantment more 
potent still. Her half-distressed, half-subdued listening, her little prot- 
estations, her surprise, yet half-consent, and above all the privilege 
of pouring forth upon her the full tide of passionate words which 
surprised himself by their fluency and force, entirely satisfied him. 
Her youth, her gentle ignorance and innocence, which were so 
sweet, fully accounted for the absence of response. 

He felt instinctively that it was sweeter that she should allow he][- 
self to be worshipped, that she should not be ready to meet him, but 
have to be wooed and entreated before she found a reply. These 
were all additional charms. He felt no want, nor was conscious of 
any drawback. The noise in the tops of the fir-trees, the waving of 
the branches overhead, the rushing of the wind, were to Fred more 
sweet than any sound of hidden brooks, or all the tender rustling of 
the foliage of June. 

Presently, however, there came a shock of awakening to this 
rapture, when the young pair reached the little gate which admitted 
into the garden of Gilston. Fred saw the house suddenly rising be- 
fore him above the shrubberies, gray and solid and real, and the 
sight of it brought him back out of that magic circle. They both 
stopped short outside the door with a consciousness of reality which 
silenced the one and roused the other. In any other circumstances 
Efiie would have asked him to come in. She stopped now with her 
hand on the gate, with a sense of the impossibility of inviting him 
now to cross that threshold. And Fred too stopped short. To go 
farther would be to risk the entire fabric of this sudden happiness. 

He took her hand again, “ Dear Eflie, dearest Effie; good-night, 
darling, good-night.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Fred! but you must not call me these names, you must 
not think— It is all such a surprise, and I have let you say too much. 
You must not think — ” 

“ That I am to you what you are to me? Oh, no, I do not think 
it; but you will let me love you? that is all I ask; and you will try 
to think of me a little. Effie, you will think of me — just a little — 
and of this sweet moment, and of the flower you have given me.” 

“Oh, I will not be able to help thinking,” cried Effie. “But, 
Mr. Fred, I am just bewildered; I do not know what you have been 
saying. And I did not give it you. Don’t suppose— oh, don’t sup- 
pose — You must not go away thinking — ” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


101 


“ I think only that you will let me love you and try to please you. 
Good-night, darling, good-night.” 

Effle went through the garden falling back into her dream. She 
scarcely knew what she was treading on, the garden paths all dim 
in the fading light, or the flower-beds with their dahlias. She heard 
his footstep hurrying along towards the road, and the sound of his 
voice seemed to linger in the air — darling ! had any one ever called 
her by that name before? There was nobody to call her so. She 
was Uncle John’s darling, but he did not use such words; and there 
was no one else to do it. 

Darling! now that she was alone she felt the hot blush come up 
enveloping her from head to foot — was it Fred Dirom who had called 
her that — a man, a stranger! A sudden fright and panic seized her. 
His darling! what did that mean? To what had she bound herself? 
She could not be his darling without something in return. Effle 
paused half-way across the garden with a sudden impulse to run 
after him, to tell him it was a mistake, that he must not think — 
But then she remembered that she had already told him that he 
must not think— -and that he had said no, oh, no, but that she was 
his darling. A confused sense that a great deal had happened to 
her, though she scarcely knew how, and that she had done some- 
thing which she did not understand, without meaning it, without 
desiring it, came over her like a gust of the wind which suddenly 
seemed to have become chill, and blew straight upon her out of the col- 
orless sky which was all white and black with its flying clouds. She 
stood still to think,but she could not think ; her thoughts began to hurry 
like the wind, flying across the surface of her mind, leaving no trace. 

There were lights in the windows of the drawing-room, and Effle 
could hear through the stillness the voice of her stepmother running 
on in her usual strain, and little Rory shouting and driving his 
coach in the big easy-chair. She could not bear to go into the 
lighted room, to expose her agitated countenance to the comments 
which she knew would attend her, the questions, where she had 
been, and why she was so late? Effle had not a suspicion that her 
coming was eagerly looked for, and that Mrs. Ogilvie was waiting 
with congratulations; but she could not meet any eye with her story 
written so clearly in her face. She hurried up to her own room, and 
there sat in the dark pondering and wondering. “Think of me a 
little.” Oh! should she ever be able to think of anything else all 
her life? 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Effie came down to dinner late, with eyes that betrayed them- 
selves by unusual shining, and a color that wavered from red to 
pale. She had put on her white frock hurriedly, forgetting her 
usual little ornaments in the confusion of her mind. To her as- 
tonishment Mrs. Ogilvie, who was waiting at the drawing-room 
door looking out for her, instead of the word of reproof which her 
lateness generally called forth, met her with a beaming countenance. 

“ Well, Miss Effie!” she said, “ so you’re too grand to mind that it’s 
dinner-time. I suppose you’ve just had your little head turned with 
flattery and nonsense.” And, to the consternation of her stepdaughter, 
Mrs. Ogilvie took her by the shoulders and gave her a hearty kiss upon 
her cheek. “I am just as glad as if I had come into a fortune,” 
she said. 

Mr. Ogilvie added a “Humph!” as he moved on to the dining- 
room. And he shot a glance which was not an angry glance (as it 
generally was when he was kept waiting for his dinner) at his child. 

“You need not keep the dinner waiting now that she has come,” 
he said. Effie did not know what to make of this extraordinary kirw:!- 
ness of everybody. Even old George did not look daggers at her as 
he took off the cover of the tureen. It was inconceivable; never in 
her life had her sin of being late received this kind of notice before. 

When they sat down at table Mrs. Ogilvie gave a little shriek of 
surprise, “Why, where are your beads, Effie? Ye have neither a 
bow, nor a bracelet, nor one single thing, but your white frock. I 
might well say your head was turned, but I never expected it in this 
way. And why did you not keep him to his dinner? You would 
have minded your ribbons that are so becoming to you, if he had 
been here.” 

“ Let her alone,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “she is well enough as she is.” 

“ Oh, yes, she’s well enough, and more than well enough, consider- 
ing how she has managed her little affairs. Take some of this trout, 
Effie. It’s a very fine fish. It’s just too good a dinner to eat all by 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


103 


ourselves. I was thinking we were sure to have had company. 
Why didn’t you bring him in to his dinner, you shy little thing? 
You would think shame; as if there was any reason to think shame! 
Poor 5'^oung man! I will take him into my own hands another 
time, and I will see he is not snubbed. Give Miss Effie a little of 
that claret, George. She is just a little done out — what with her 
walk, and what with — ” 

“ I am not tired at all,” said Effie, with indignation. “ I don’t want 
any wine. ” 

“ You are just very cross and thrawn,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, 
making pretence to threaten the girl with her finger. “You will 
have your own way. But to be sure there is only one time in the 
world when a woman is sure of having her own way, and I don’t 
grudge it to you, my dear. Robert, just you let Rory be in his 
little chair till nurse comes for him. No, no, I will not have him 
given things to eat. It’s very bad manners, and it keeps his little 
stomach out of order. Let him be. You are just making a fool of 
the bairn.” 

“Guide your side of the house as well as I do mine,” said Mr. 
Ogilvie, aggrieved. He was feeding his little son furtively, with an 
expression of beatitude impossible to describe. Effie was a young 
woman in whom, it was true, he took a certain interest; but her 
marrying, or any other nonsense that she might take into her head, 
what was it to him? He had never taken much to do with the 
woman’s side of the house. But his little Rory, that was a different 
thing. A splendid little fellow, just a little king. And what harm 
could a little bit of fish, or just a snap of grouse, do him? It was all 
women’s nonsense thinking that slops and puddings and that kind of 
thing were best for a boy. 

“My side of the house!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with a little shriek; 
“and what might that be? If Rory is not my side of the house, 
whose side does he belong to? And don’t you think that I would 
ever let you have the guiding of him. Oh, nurse, here you arc! I 
am just thankful to see you, for Mr. Ogilvie will have his own way, 
and as sure as we’re all living that boy will have an attack before 
to-morrow morning. Take him away and give him a little— Yes, 
yes, just something simple of that kind. Good-night, my bonnie 
little man. I would like to know what is my side if it isn’t 
Rory ? You are meaning the female side. Well, and if I had 


104 


EFPIE OGn^VIE, 


not more consideration for your daughter than you have for 
my son — ” 

“Listen to her!” said Mr. Ogilvie, “her son! I like that.” 

“And whose son may he be? But you’ll not make me quarrel 
whatever you do — and on this night of all others. Effie, here is 
your health, my dear, and I wish you every good. We will have to 
write to Eric, and perhaps he might get home in time. Wliat was 
that Eric said, Robert, about getting short leave? It is a very waste- 
ful thing coming all the way from India, and only six weeks or so to 
spend at home. Still, if there was a good reason for it — ” 

“Is Eric coming home? have you got a letter? But you could 
not have got a letter since the morning,” cried Effie. 

“No; but other things may have happened since the morning,” 
said Mrs. Ogilvie, with a nod and a smile. Effie could not under- 
stand the allusions which rained upon her. She retreated more 
and more into herself, merely listening to the talk that went on 
across her. She sat at her usual side of the table, eating little, tak- 
ing no notice. It did not occur to her that what had happened in 
the wood concerned any one but herself. After all, what was it? 
Nothing to disturb anybody, not a thing to be talked about. To 
try to please her— that was all he had asked, and who could have 
refused him a boon so simple? It was silly of her even, she said 
to herself, to be so confused by it, so absorbed thinking about it, 
growing white and red, as if something had happened; when noth- 
ing had happened except that he was to try to please her — as if she 
were so hard to please! 

But Effie was more and more disturbed when her stepmother 
turned upon her as soon as the^ dining-room door was closed, and 
took her by the shoulders again. 

“You little bit thing, you little quiet thing!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
“To think you should have got the prize that never took any 
thought of it, whereas many another nice girl! — I am just as proud 
as if it was myself . and he is good as well as rich, and by no means 
ill-looking, and a very pleasant young man. I have always felt like 
a mother to you, Effie, and always done my duty, I hope. Just you 
trust in me as if I were your real mother. Where did ye meet him? 
And were you very much surprised? and what did he say?” 

Effie grew red from the soles of her feet, she thought, to the 
crown of her head, shame, or, rather, shamefacedness, its innocent 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


105 


counterpart, enveloping her like a mantle. Her eyes fell before her 
stepmother's, but she shook herself free of Mrs. Ogilvie’s hold. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. 

“Oh, fie, Effie, fie! You may not intend to show me any confi- 
dence, which will be very ill done on your part; but you cannot 
pretend not to know what I mean. It was me that had pity upon 
the lad, and showed him the way you were coming. I have always 
been your well-wisher, doing whatever I could. And to tell me that 
you don’t know what I mean!” 

Effie had her little obstinacies as well as another. She was not so 
perfect as Fred Dirom thought. She went and got her knitting — 
a little stocking for Rory — work which she was by no means de- 
voted to on ordinary occasions. But she got it out now, and sat 
down in a corner at a distance from the table and the light, and be- 
gan to knit as if her life depended upon it. 

“ I must get this little stocking finished. It has been so long in 
hand,” she said. 

“Well, that is true,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had watched all 
Effie’s proceedings with a sort of vexed amusement; “very true, 
and I will not deny it. You have had other things in your mind; 
still, to take a month to a bit little thing like that, that I could do 
in two evenings! But you’re very industrious all at once. Will 
you not come nearer to the light?” 

“ I can see very well where I am,” said Effie, shortly. 

“I have no doubt you can see very well where you are, for there 
is little light wanted for knitting a stocking. Still you would be 
more sociable if you would come nearer. Effie Ogilvie!” she cried, 
suddenly, “ you will never tell me that you have sent him away?” 

Effie looked at her with defiance in her eyes, but she made no 
reply. 

“ Lord bless us!” said her stepmother; “ you will not tell me you 
have done such a thing? Effie, are you in your senses, girl? Mr. 
Fred Dirom, the best match in the county, that might just have 
who he liked — that has all London to pick and choose from— and 
yet comes out of his way to offer himself to a— to a — just a child 
like you. Robert,” she said, addressing her husband, who was 
coming in tranquilly for his usual cup of tea, “Robert! grant us 
patience! I’m beginning to think she has sent Fred Dirom 
av/ay !” 


106 


EFFIE OGILVTE. 


“Where lias she sent him to?” said Mr. Ogilvie, with a glance 
half angry, half contemptuous from under his shaggy eyebrows. 
Then he added, “But that will never do, for I have given the 
young man my word.” 

Effle had done her best to go on with her knitting, but the needles 
had gone all wrong in her hands; she had slipped her stitches, her 
wool had got tangled. She could not see what she was doing. She 
got up, letting the little stocking drop at her feet, and stood between 
the tw'o, who were both eying her so anxiously. 

“I wish,” she said, “that you would let me alone. I am doing 
nothing to anybody. I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that. 
What have I done? I have done nothing that is wrong. Oh, I 
wish~I wish Uncle John were here!” she exclaimed, suddenly, and 
in spite of herself and all her pride and defensive instincts sudden- 
ly began to cry, like the child she still was. 

“Jt would be a very good thing if he were here; he would, per- 
haps, bring you to your senses. A young man that you have kept 
dancing about you all the summer, and let him think you liked his 
society, and was pleased to see him when he came, and never a 
thought in your head of turning him from the door. And now" 
when he has spoken to your father, and offered himself and all, in 
the most honorable way. Dear bless me, Effle, w"hat has the young 
man done to you that you have led him on like this, and made a 
fool of him, and then to send him away!” 

“I have never led him on,” cried Effle, through her tears. “I 
have not made a fool of him. If he liked to come, that was nothing 
to anybody, and I never — never — ” 

“It is very easy to speak. Perhaps you think a young man has 
no pride? when they are just made up of it! Yes — you have led 
him on ; and now he will be made a fool of before all the county. 
For everybody has seen it; it will run through the whole country- 
side; and the poor young man will just be scorned everywdiere, that 
has done no harm but to think more of you than you deserve.” 

“There’s far too much of this,” said Mr. Ogilvie, who prided 
himself a little on his power to stop all female disturbances and to 
assert his authority. “Janet, you’ll let the girl alone. And, Effle, 
you’ll see that you don’t set up your face and answer back, for it is 
a thing I will not allow. Dear me, is that tea not coming? I will 
have to go away without it if it is not ready. I should have thought, 


EPF IE OG ILVIE. 


107 


with all the women there are in this house, it might be possible to 
get a cup of tea.” 

“And that is true indeed,” said his wife, “but they will not keep 
the kettle boiling. The kettle should be always aboil in a well- 
cared-for house. I tell them so ten times in a day. But here it is 
at last. You see you are late, George; you have kept your master 
waiting. And EfRe — ” 

But Effie had disappeared. She had slid out of the room under 
cover of old George and his tray, and had flown up-stairs through 
the dim passages to her own room, where all was dark. There arc 
moments when the darkness is more congenial than the light, when 
a young head swims with a hundred thoughts, and life is giddy with 
its overfulness, and a dark room is a hermitage and place of refuge 
soothing in its contrast with all that which is going through the 
head of the thinker, and all the pictures that float before her (as in 
the present case — or his) eyes. She had escaped like a bird into its 
nest; but not without carrying a little further disturbance with her. 

The idea of Fred had hitherto conveyed nothing to her mind that 
was not flattering and soothing and sweet. But now there was a 
harsher side added to this amiable and tender one. She had led him 
on. She had given him false hopes and made him believe that she 
cared for him. Had she made him believe that she — cared for him? 
Poor Fred! He had himself put it in so much prettier a way. He 
was to try to please her, as if she had been the queen. To try to 
please her! and she on her side was to try — to like him. That was 
very different from those harsh accusations. There was nothiug 
that was not delightful, easy, soothing in all that. They had parted 
such friends. And he had called her darling, which no one had ever 
called her before. 

Her heart took refuge with Fred, who was so kind and asked for 
so little, escaping from her stepmother with her flood of questions 
and demands, and her father with his dogmatism. His word; he 
had given his word. Did he think that was to pledge her? that she 
was to be handed over to any one hq pleased, because he had given 
his word? But Fred made no such claim — he was too kind for that. 
He was to try to please her; that was different altogether. 

And then EfRe gradually forgot the episode down-stairs, and be- 
gan to think of the dark trees tossed against the sky, and the road 
through the wood, and the look of her young lover’s eyes which she 


108 


EFFIE OGILVIE, 


liad not ventured to meet, and all the things he said which she did 
not remember. She did not remember the words, and she had not 
met the look, but yet they were both present with her in her room in 
the dark, and filled her again with that confused, sweet sense of ele- 
vation, that self-pleasure which it would be harsh to call vanity, 
that bewildered consciousness of worship. It made her head swim 
and her heart beat. To be loved was so strange and beautiful. 
Perhaps Fred himself was not so imposing. She had noticed, in 
spite of herself, how the wind had blown the tails of his coat and al- 
most forced him on against his will. He was not the hero of whom 
Effie, like other young maidens, had dreamed. But yet her young 
being was thrilled and responsive to the magic in the air, and touched 
beyond measure by that consciousness of being loved. 

Fred came next morning eager and wistful and full of suppressed 
ardor, but with a certain courage of permission and sense that he had 
a right to her society, which was half irksome and half sweet. He 
hung about all the morning, ready to follow, to serve her, to get 
whatever she might want, to read poetry to her, to hold her basket 
while she cut the flowers — the late flowers of October — to watch 
while she arranged them, saying a hundred half-articulate things 
that made her laugh and made her blush, and increased every mo- 
ment the certainty that she was no longer little Effie whom every- 
body had ordered about, but a little person of wonderful importance, 
a lady like the ladies in Shakespeare, one for whom no comparison 
was too lofty, and no name too sweet. 

It amused Effie in the bottom of her heart, and yet it touched her; 
she could not escape the fascination. And so it came about that 
without any further question, without going any further into her- 
self, or perceiving how she was drawn into it, she found herself 
bound and pledged for life. 

Engaged to Fred Dirom! She only realized the force of it when 
congratulations began to arrive from all the country-side — letters full 
of admiration and good wishes; and when Doris and Phyllis rushed 
upon her, saying a hundred confusing things. Effie was frightened, 
pleased, flattered, all in one. And everybody petted and praised her 
as if she had done some great thing. 


CHAPTER XV. 


“And when is it going to be?” Miss Dempster said. 

The ladies had come to call in their best gowns. Miss Beenie’s 
was puce, an excellent silk of the kind Mrs. Primrose chose for 
wear — and Miss Dempster’s was black satin, a little shiny by reason 
of its years, but good, no material better. These dresses were not 
brought out for every occasion ; but to-day was exceptional. They 
did not approve of Effie’s engagement, yet there was no doubt but it 
was a great event. They had been absent from home for about three 
weeks, so that their congratulations came late. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by it; there is nothing going to 
be,” said EfFie, very red and angry. She had consented, it was true, 
in a way; but she had not yet learned to contemplate any practical 
consequences, and the question made her indignant. Her temper 
had been tried by a great many questions, and by a desire to enter 
into her confidence, and to hear a great deal about Fred, and how it 
all came about, which her chief friend Mary Johnston and some 
others had manifested. She had nothing to say to them about Fred, 
and she could not herself tell how it all came about; but it seemed 
the last drop in Eliie’s cup when she was asked when it was to be. 

“ I should say your father and Mrs. Ogilvie would see to that; 
they are not the kind of persons to let a young man shilly-shally,” 
said Miss Dempster. “ It is a grand match, and I wish ye joy, my 
dear. Still, I would like to hear a little more about it; for money 
embarked in business is no inheritance; it’s just here to-day and 
gone to-morrow. I hope your worthy father will be particular about 
the settlements. He should have things very tight tied down. I 
will speak to him myself.” 

“ My sister has such a head for business,” Miss Beenie said. 
“Anybody might make a fool of me; but the man that would take 
in Sarah, I do not think he is yet born.” 

“No, I am not an easy one to take in,” said Miss Dempster. 
“ Those that have seen as much of the ways of the world as I have. 


110 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


seldom are. I am not meaning that there would be any evil inten- 
tion; but a man is led into speculation, or something happens to his 
ships, or he has his money all shut up in ventures. I would have a 
certain portion realized and settled, whatever might happen, if it 
w^as me.” 

“ And have you begun to think of your things, Effle?” Miss Beenie 
said. 

At this Miss Effie jumped up from her chair, ready to cry, her 
countenance all ablaze with indignation and annoyance. 

“I think you want to torment me,” she cried. “What things 
should I have to think of? I wish you would just let me be. What 
do I know about all that? I want only to be let alone. There is 
nothing going to happen to me.” 

“ Dear me, what is this?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, coming in, “ Effle in 
one of her tantrums and speaking loud to Miss Dempster! I hope 
you will never mind; she is just a little off her head with all the ex- 
citement and the flattery, and flnding herself so important. Eflie, 
will you go and see that Kory is not troubling papa? Take him up 
to the nursery or out to the garden. It’s a fine afternoon, and a 
turn in the garden would do him no harm, nor you either, for you’re 
looking a little flushed. She is just the most impracticable thing I 
ever had in my hands, ” she added, when Effle, very glad to be re- 
leased, escaped out of the room. “ She will not hear a word. You 
would think it v/as just philandering, and no serious thought of 
what’s to follow in her head at all.” 

“ It would be a pity,” said Miss Dempster, “ if it was the same on 
the other side. Young men are very content to amuse themselves 
if they’re let do it; they like nothing better than to love and to ride 
away.” 

“ You’ll be pleased to hear,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, responding instant- 
ly to this challenge, ‘ ‘ that it’s very, very different on the other side. 
Poor Fred, I am just very sorry for him. He cannot bring her to 
the point. She slips out of it, or she runs away. He tells me she 
will never say anything to him, but just ‘ It is very nice now; or, 
we are very well as we are.’ He is anxious to be settled, poor young 
man, and nothing can be more liberal than what he proposes. But 
Effle is just very trying. She thinks life is to be all fun, and no 
changes. To be sure there are allo'wances to be made for a girl that is 
so happy at home as Effle is, and has so many good friends.” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


Ill 


“Maybe her heart is not in it,” said Miss Dempster; “ I have al- 
ways thought that our connection, young Ronald Sutherland—” 

“It’s a dreadful thing,” cried Miss Beenie, “to force a young 
creature’s affections. If she were to have, poor bit thing, another 
eemage in her mind — ” 

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, provoked. She would have liked to 
shake them, the old cats! as she afterwards said. But she was wise 
in her generation, and knew that to quarrel was always bad policy. 
“What eemage could there be?” she said, with a laugh. “Effle is 
just full of fancies, and slips through your fingers whenever you 
would bring her to look at anything in earnest; but that is all. 
No, no, there is no eemage, unless it was just whim and fancy. 
As for Ronald, she never gave him a thought, nor anybody else. 
She is like a little wild thing, and to catch her and put the noose 
round her is not easy; but as for eemage!” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, exag- 
gerating the pronunciation of poor Miss Beenie, which was certain- 
ly old-fashioned. The old ladies naturally did not share her laugh- 
ter. They looked at each other, and rose and shook out their rust- 
ling silken skirts. 

“There is no human person,” said Miss Dempster, “that is be- 
yond the possibility of a mistake ; and my sister and me, we may be 
mistaken. But you will never make me believe that girlie’s heart is 
in it. Eemage or no eemage, I’m saying nothing. Beenie is just 
a trifle romantic. She may be wrong. But I give you my opinion ; 
that girlie’s heart’s not in it; and nothing will persuade me to the 
contrary. Efiie is a delicate bit creature. There are many things 
that the strong might never mind, but that she could not bear. 
It’s an awful responsibility, Mrs. Ogilvie.” 

“ I will take the responsibility,” said that lady, growing angry, as 
was natural. “I am not aware that it’s a thing any person has to 
do with except her father and me. ” 

“If you take it upon that tone, Beenie, we will say good- 
day.” 

“Good-day to ye, Mrs. Ogilvie. I am sure I hope no harm will 
come of it; but it’s an awfu’ responsibility,” Miss Beenie said, fol- 
loAving her sister to the door. And we dare not guess what high 
words might have followed had not the ladies, in going out, crossed 
Mr. Moubray coming in. They would fain have stopped him to 
convey their doubts, but Mrs. Ogilvie had followed them to the hall 


113 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


in the extreme politeness of a quarrel, and they could not do this 
under her very eyes. Uncle John perceived, with the skilled per- 
ceptions of a clergyman, that there was a storm in the air. 

“AVhat is the matter?” he said, as he followed her back to the 
drawing-room. “ Is it about Effle? But, of course, that is the only 
topic now.” 

“Oh, you may be sure it’s about Effie. And all her own doing, 
and I wish you would speak to her. It is my opinion that she cares 
for nobody but you. Sometimes she will mind what her Uncle * 
John says to her.” ^ 

“Poor little Effle! often I hope; and you too, who have always 
been kind to her.” 

“I have tried,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, sitting down and taking out 
her handkerchief. She appeared to be about to indulge herself in 
the luxury of tears; she looked hard at that piece of cambric, as 
though determining the spot which was to be applied to her eyes, 
and then she changed her mind. 

“But I know it is a difflcult position,” she said, briskly. “ I think 
it very likely, in Effle’s place, that I should not have liked a step- 
mother myself. But then you would think she would be pleased 
with her new prospects, and glad to get into her own house out of 
my way. If that was the case I would think it very natural. But 
no. I am just in that state about her that I don’t know what I 
am doing. Here is a grand marriage for her, as you cannot deny, 
and she has accepted the man. But if either he or any one of 
us says a word about marriage, or her trousseau, or anything, she is 
just off in a moment. I am terrifled every day for a quarrel; for 
who can say how long a young man’s patience may last?” 

‘ ‘ He has not had so very long to wait, nor much trial of his pa- 
tience,” said Uncle John, who was sensitive on Effle’s account, and 
ready to take offence. 

“No; he has, perhaps, not had long to wait. But there is nothing n. 
to wait for. His father is willing to make all the settlements we % 
can desire; and Fred is a partner, and gets his share. He’s as in- 
dependent as a man can be. And there’s no occasion for delay. 

But she will not hear a word of it. I just don’t know what to make 
of her. She likes him well enough for all I can see; but marriage 
she will not hear of. And if it is to be at the New Year, which is 
what he desires, and us in November now — I just ask you how are 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


113 


we ever to be ready when she will not give the least attention, or so 
indch as hear a word about her clothes?” 

“ Oh, her clothes!” said Mr. Moubray, with a man’s disdain. 

“You may think little of them, but I think a great deal. It is 
all very well for gentlemen that have not got it to do. But what 
would her father say to me, or the world in general, or even your- 
self, if I let her go to her husband’s house with a poor providing, or 
fewer things than other brides? Whose fault would everybody say 
that was? And, besides, it’s like a silly thing, not like a reasonable 
young woman. I wish you would speak to her. If there is one 
thing that weighs with Effle, it is the thought of what her Uncle 
John will say.” 

“But what do you want me to say?” asked the minister. His 
mind was more in sympathy with EflSe’s reluctance than with the 
haste of the others. There was nothing to be said against Fred 
Dirom. He was irreproachable, he was rich, he was willing to live 
within reach. Every circumstance was favorable to him. 

But Mr. Moubray thought the young man might very well be 
content with what he had got, and spare his Effie a little longer to 
those whose love for her was far older at least, if not profounder, 
than his. The minister had something of the soreness of a man who 
is being robbed in the name of love. 

Love! forty thousand lovers, he thought, reversing Hamlet’s sen- 
timent, could not have made up the sum of the love he bore his little 
girl. Marriage is the happiest state, no doubt; but yet, perhaps a 
man has a more sensitive shrinking from transplanting the innocent 
creature he loves into that world of life matured than even a mother 
has. He did not like the idea that his Effie should pass into that 
further chapter of existence, and become, not as the gods, knowing 
good and evil, but as himself, or any other. He loved her igno- 
rance, her absence of all consciousness, her freedom of childhood. 
It is true she was no longer a child; and she loved— did she love? 
Perhaps secretly in his heart he was better pleased to think that she 
had been drawn by sympathy, by her reluctance that any one should 
suffer, and by the impulse and influence of everybody about her, 
rather than by any passion on her own side, into these toils. 

“What do you want me to say?” He was a little softened tow- 
ards the stepmother, who acknowledged honestly (she was, on the 
whole, a true sort of woman, meaning no harm) the close tie, almost 
8 


114 


EFFIE OGILVEE. 


closer than any other, wliicli bound Effie to him. And he would 
not fail to Mrs. Ogilvie’s trust if he could help it; but what was* he 
to say? 

Effle was in the garden when Uncle John went out. She had in- 
terpreted her stepmother’s commission about Rory to mean that she 
was not wanted, and she had been glad to escape from the old ladies 
and all their questions and remarks. She was coming back from 
the Vv^ood with a handful of withered leaves and lichens when her 
uncle joined her. Effie had been seized with a fit of impatience of 
the baskets of flowers which Fred was always bringing. She pre- 
ferred her bouquet of red and yellow leaves, which every day it was 
getting more difficult to find. This gave Mr. Moubray the opening 
he wanted. 

‘You are surely perverse,” he said, “my little Effle, to gather all 
these things, which your father would call rubbitch, when you have 
so many beautiful flowers inside.” 

‘ ‘ I cannot bear those grand flowers, ” said Effle ; ‘ ‘ they are all made 
out of wax, I think, and they have all the same scent. Oh, I know 
they are beautiful! They are too beautiful, they are made-up things, 
they are not like nature. In winter I like the leaves best.” 

“You will soon have no leaves, and what will you do then? and, 
my dear, your life is to be spent among these bonnie things. You 
are not to have the thorns and the thistles, but the roses and the 
lilies, Effle; and you must get used to them. It is generally a les- 
son very easily learned. ” ' 

To this Effie made no reply. After a while she began to show 
that the late autumn leaves, if not a matter of opposition, were not 
particularly dear to her, for she pulled them to pieces, unconscious- 
ly dropping a twig now and then, as she went on. And when she 
spoke, it was apparently with the intention of changing the subject. 

“Is it really true,” she said, “that Eric is coming home for 
Christmas? He said nothing about it in his last letter. How do 
they know?” 

“ There is such a thing as the telegraph, Effle. You know why 
he is coming. He is coming for your marriage.” 

Effie gave a start and quick recoil. 

“ But that is not going to be— oh, not yet, not for a long time.” 

“I thought that everybody wished it to take place at the New 
Year.” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


115 


“Not me,” said the girl. She took no care at all now of the 
leaves she had gathered -with so mueh trouble, hut strewed the 
ground with them as if for a procession to pass. 

“ Unele John,” she went on quickly and tremulously, “why 
should it be so soon? I am quite young. Sometimes I feel just 
like a little child, though I may not be so very young in years.” 

“Nineteen!” 

“ Yes, I know it is not very young. I shall be twent}’’ next year. 
At twenty you understand things better ; you are a great deal more 
responsible. Why should there be any hurry ? He is young too. 
You might help me to make them all see it. Everything is nice 
enough as it is now. Why should we go and alter, and make it all 
different? Oh, I wish you would speak to them, Uncle John.” 

“ My dear, your stepmother has just given me a commission to 
bring you over to their way of thinking. I am so loath to lose you 
that my heart takes your side; but, Effle — ” 

“ To lose me!” she cried, flinging away the “ rubbitch ” altogether, 
and seizing diis arm with both her hands. “Oh, no, no, that can 
never be!” 

“ No, it will never be; and yet it will be as soon as you’re married; 
and there is a puzzle for you, my bonnie dear. The worst of it is 
that you will be quite content, and see that it is natural it should be 
so; but I will not be content. That is what people call the course 
of nature. But for all that, I am not going to plead for myself. 
Effle, the change has begun already. A little while ago, and there 
was no man in the world that had any right to interfere with your 
own wishes; but now, you know, the thing is done. It is as much 
done as if you had been married for years. You must now think 
not only of what pleases yourself, but of what pleases him.” 

Effle was silent for some time, and went slowly along clinging 
to her uncle’s arm. At last she said, in a low tone, “But he is 
pleased. He said he would try to please me; that was all that was 
said.” 

Uncle John shook his head. 

“ That may be all that is said, and it is all a young man thinks 
when he is in love. But, my dear, that means that you must please 
liim. Everything is reciprocal in this world. And the moment 
you give your consent that he is to please you, you pledge yourself 
to consider and please him.” 


116 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“ But he is pleased. Oh! he says he will do whatever 1 wish.” 

“That is, if you will do what he wishes, EfHe. For what he 
wishes is what it all means, my dear. And the moment you put 
your hand in his, it is right that he should strive to have you, and 
fight and struggle to have you, and never he content till he has got 
you. I would myself think him a poor creature if he thought any- 
thing else.” 

There was another pause, and then Etfie said, clasping more close- • 
ly her uncle’s arm, “ But it would be soon enough in a year or two — 
after there w\as time to think. Why should there be a hurry? 
After I am twenty I would have more sense; it would not be so 
hard. I could understand better. Surely that’s very reasonable. 
Uncle John.” 

“Too reasonable,” he said, shaking his head. “Etfie, lift up 
your eyes and look me in" the face. Are you sure that you are 
happy, my little woman? Look me in the face.” 


CHAPTER XVL 


"No, Beenie,” said Miss Dempster, solemnly, "her heart is not 
in it. Do you think it is possible at her age that a young creature 
could resist all the excitement and the importance, and the wedding- 
presents and the wedding-clothes? It was bad enough in our own 
time, but it’s just twice as bad now when every mortal thinks it 
needful to give their present, and boxes are coming in every day for 
months. That’s a terrible bad custom; it’s no better than the penny 
weddings the poor people used to have. But to think a young 
thing would be quite indifferent to all that, if everything was natu- 
ral, is more than I can understand.” 

"That’s very true,” said Miss Beenie, "and all her new things. 
If it were nothing but the collars and fichus that are so pretty now- 
adays, and all the new pocket-handkerchiefs. ” 

" It’s not natural,” the elder sister said. 

‘ ‘ And if you will remember, there was a wonderful look about 
the little thing’s eyes when Ronald went away. To be sure there 
was Eric with him. She was really a little thing then, though now 
she’s grown up. You may depend upon it that, though maybe she 
may not be conscious of it herself, there is another eemage in her 
poor bit little heart.” 

"Ye are too sentimental, Beenie. That’s not necessary. There 
may be a shrinking without that. I know no harm, of young Dirom. 
He’s not one that would ever take my fancy, but still there’s no 
harm in him. The stepmother is just ridiculous. She thinks it’s 
her that’s getting the elevation. There will never be a word out of 
her mouth but Allonby if this comes to pass. But the heart of the 
little thing is not in it. She was angry; that was what her color 
came from. It was no blush, yon; it was out of an angry and an 
unwilling mind. I have not lived to my present considerable age 
without knowing what a girl’s looks mean.” 

" You are not so old as you make yourself out. A person would 
think you were just a Methusaleh; when it is well known there is 
only five years between us,” said Miss Beenie, in an aggrieved tone. 


118 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“I always say there’s a. lifetime, so you may be easy in your 
mind so far as that goes. I am just as near a Methusaleh as I’ve 
any desire to be. I wonder now if Mrs. Ogilvie knows what has 
happened about Ronald, and that he’s coming home. To be a well- 
born woman herself, she has very little understanding about inter- 
marriages and that kind of thing. It’s more than likely that she 
doesn’t know. And to think that young man should come back, 
with a nice property, though it’s small, and in a condition to marry, 
just when this is settled! Bless me! if he had come three months 
ago! Providence is a real mystery!” said Miss Dempster, with the 
air of one who is reluctant to blame, but cannot sincerely excuse. 
“ Three months more or less, what were they to auld Dauvid Hay? 
He was just doited ; he neither knew morning nor evening: and most 
likely that would have changed the lives of three other folk. It is 
a great mystery to me.” 

“He will maybe not be too late yet,” said Miss Beenie, signif- 
icantly. 

“Woman, you are just without conscience,” cried her sister. 
“Would that be either right or fair? No, no, they must just abide 
by their lot as it is shaped out. It would be a cruel thing to drop 
that poor lad now for no fault of his — just because she did not know 
her own mind. No, no, I have Ronald’s interest much at heart, and 
I’m fond in a way of that bit little Eflie, though she’s often been im- 
pertinent — but I would never interfere. Bless me! If I had known 
there was to be so little satisfaction got out of it, that’s a veesit I 
never would have paid. I am turning terrible giddy. I can scarcely 
see where I’m going. I wish I had stayed at home.” 

“If we had not just come away as it were in a fuff,” said Miss 
Beenie, “ you would have had your cup of tea, and that would have 
kept up your strength.” 

“Ay, ^7,” said Miss Dempster. “ That’s no doubt an argument 
for keeping one’s temper, but it’s a little too late. Yes, I wish I had 
got my cup of tea. I am feeling very strange; everything’s going 
round and round before my eyes. Eh, I wish I was at my own 
door!” 

“ It’s from want of taking your food. You’ve eaten nothing this 
two or three days. Dear me, Sarah, you’re not going to faint at your 
age! Take a hold of my arm and we’ll get as far as Janet Murray’s. 
She’s a very decent woman. She will soon make you a cup of tea.” 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


11 


“No, no — I’ll have none of your arm, I can just manage,” said 
Miss Dempster. But her face had grown ashy pale. “We’re poor 
creatures,” she murmured, “poor creatures; it’s all the want of — 
the want of — that cup o’ tea. ” 

“You’ll have to see the doctor,” said Miss Beenie. “ I’m no more 
disposed to pin my faith in him than you are ; but there are many 
persons that think him a very clever man — ” 

“No, no, no doctor. Old Jardine’s son that kept a shop in— 
No, no; I’ll have no doctor. I’ll get home — I’ll — ” 

“ Oh,” cried Miss Beenie. “I will just run on to Janet Murray’s 
and bid her see that her kettle is aboil. You’ll be right again when 
you’ve had your tea.” 

“Yes, I’ll be all right,” murmured the old lady. The road was 
soft and muddy with rain, the air very gray, the clouds hanging 
heavy and full of moisture over the earth. Miss Beenie hastened on 
for a few steps, and then she paused, she knew not why, and looked 
round and uttered aloud cry; there seemed to be no one but herself 
on the solitary country road. But after a moment she perceived a 
little heap of black satin on the path. Her first thought, unconscious 
of the catastrophe, was for this cherished black satin, the pride of 
Miss Dempster’s heart. 

“Oh, your best gown!” she cried, and hurried back to help her 
sister out of the mire. But Miss Beenie soon forgot the best gown. 
Miss Dempster lay huddled up among the scanty hawthorn bushes 
of the broken hedge which skirted the way. Her hand had caught 
against a thorny bramble which supported it. She lay motionless, 
without speaking, without making a sign, with nothing that had life 
about her save her eyes. Those eyes looked up from the drawn face 
with an anxious stare of helplessness, as if speech and movement and 
every faculty had got concentrated in them. 

Miss Beenie gave shriek after shriek as she tried to raise up the 
prostrate figure. “Oh, Sarah, what’s the matter? Oh, try to stand 
up; oh, let me get you up upon your feet! Oh, my dear, my dear, 
tiy if ye cannot get up and come home! Oh, try! if it’s onl}^ as far 
as Janet Murray’s. Oh, Sarah!” she cried, in despair, “there never 
was anything but you could do it, if you were only to tiy.” 

Sarah answered not a word, she who was never without a word to 
say; she did not move; she lay like a log while poor Beenie put her 
arms under her head and labored to raise her. Beenie made the bush 


120 


EFPIE OGILVTE. 


tremble with spasmodic movement, but did no more than touch the 
human form that lay stricken underneath. And some time passed 
before the frightened sister could realize what had happened. She 
went on with painful efforts trying to raise the inanimate form, to 
drag her to the cottage, which was within sight, to rouse and en- 
courage her to the effort which Miss Beenie could not believe her 
sister incapable of making. 

“Oh, Sarah, my bonnie woman 1 oh, Sarah, Sarah, do you no 
hear me, do you not know me? Oh, try if ye cannot get up and 
stand upon your feet. I’m no able to carry you, but I’ll support 
you. Oh, Sarah, Sarah, will you no try!” 

Then there burst upon the poor lady all at once a revelation of 
what had happened. She threw herself down by her sister with a 
shriek that seemed to rend the skies. “Oh, good Lord,” she cried, 
“oh, good Lord! I canna move her, I canna move her; my sister has 
gotten a stroke—” 

“ What are you talking about?” said a big voice behind her; and 
before Miss Beenie knew, the doctor, in all the enormity of his big 
beard, his splashed boots, his smell of tobacco, was kneeling beside 
her, examining Miss Dempster, whose wide-open eyes seemed to re- 
pulse him, though she herself lay passive under his hand. He kept 
talking all the time while he examined her pulse, her looks, her 
eyes. 

“We must get her carried home,” he said. “ You must be brave, 
Miss Beenie, and keep all your wits about you. I am hoping w^e 
will bring her round. Has there been anything the matter with her, 
or has it just come on suddenly to-day?” 

“Oh, doctor, she has eaten nothing. She has been very feeble 
and pale. She never would let me say it. She is very masterful ; 
she will never give in. Oh, that I should say a word that might have 
an ill meaning, and her lying immovable there !” 

“There is no ill meaning. It’s your duty to tell me everything. 
She is a very masterful woman; by means of that she may pull 
through. And were there any preliminaries to-day? Yes, that’s the 
right thing to do — if it will not tire you to sit in that position — ” 

“Tire me!” cried Miss Beenie— “if it eases her.” 

“ I cannot say it eases her. She is past suffering for the moment. 
Lord bless me, I never saw such a case. Those eyes of hers are 
surely full of meaning. She is perhaps more conscious than we 


EFFIE OGILVTE. 


121 


think. But, anyway, it’s the best thing to do. Stay you here till I 
get something to carry her on — ” 

“What is the matter?” said another voice, and Fred Dirom came 
hastily up. “Why, doctor, what has happened— Miss Dempster?” 
— he said this with an involuntary cry of surprise and alarm. “ I am 
afraid this is very serious,” he cried. 

“ Not so serious as it soon will be if we stand havering,” cried the 
doctor. “Get something, a mattress, to put her on. Man, look 
alive. There’s a cottage close by. Ye’ll get something if ye stir 
them up. Fly there, and I’ll stay with them to give them a 
heart.” 

“ Oh, doctor, you’re very kind — we’ve perhaps not been such good 
friends to ye as we might — ” 

“Friends, toots!” said the doctor, “we’re all friends at heart.” 

Meantime the stir of an accident had got into the air. Miss 
Beenie’s cries had no doubt reached some rustic ears; but it takes a 
long time to rouse attention in those regions. 

“What will yon be? It would be somebody crying. It sounded 
awfu’ like somebody crying. It will be some tramp about the roads; 
it will be somebody frighted at the muckle bull — ” Then at last 
there came into all minds the leisurely impulse— “ Goodsake, gang 
to the door and see — ” 

Janet Murray was the first to run out to her door. When her in- 
telligence was at length awakened to the fact that something had 
happened, nobody could be more kind. She rushed out and ran 
against Fred Dirom, who was hurrying towards the cottage with a 
startled face. 

“ Can you get me a mattress or something to carry her upon?” he 
cried, breathless. 

“ Is it an accident?”' said Janet. 

“It is a fit. I think she is dying,” cried the young man, much 
excited. 

Janet flew back and pulled the mattress off her own bed. “It’s 
no a very soft one,” she said, apologetically. Her man had come out 
of the byre, where he was ministering to a sick cow, an invalid of 
vast importance whom he left reluctantly; another man developed 
somehow out of the fields from nowhere in particular, and they all 
hurried towards the spot where Miss Beenie sat on the ground, with- 
out a thought of her best gown, holding her sister’s head on her 


122 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


breast, and letting tears fall over the crushed bonnet which the doc- 
tor had loosened, and which was dropping olT the old gray head. 

“Oh, Sarah, can ye hear me? Oh, Sarah, do ye know me? I’m 
your poor sister, Beenie. Oh, if ye could try to rouse yourself up to 
say a word. There was never anything you couldna do if ye would 
only try.” 

“She’ll not try this time,” said the doctor. “You must not blame 
her. There’s one who has her in his grips that will not hear reason ; 
but we’ll hope she’ll mend; and in the meantime you must not think 
she can help it, or that she’s to blame.” 

‘ ‘ To blame !” cried Beenie, with that acute cry. “lam silly many 
a time; but she is never to blame.” In sight of the motionless 
figure which lay in her arms. Miss Beenie’s thoughts already began 
to take that tinge of enthusiastic loyalty with which we contemplate 
the dead. 

“ Here they come, God be thanked !” said the doctor. And by and 
by a little procession made its way between the fields. Miss Demp- 
ster, as if lying in state on the mattress, Beenie beside her crying and 
moui*ning. She had followed^ at first, but then it came into her 
simple mind with a shiver that this was like following the funeral, 
and she had roused herself and taken her place a little in advance. 
It w^as a sad little procession, and when it reached the village street 
all the women came out to their doors to ask what was the matter, 
and to shake their heads, and wonder at the sight. 

The village jumped to the fatal conclusion with that desire to 
heighten every event which is common to all communities ; and the 
news ran over the parish like lightning. 

“ Miss Dempster, Rosebank, has had a stroke. She has never 
spoken since. She is just dead to this world, and little likelihood 
she will ever come back at her age.” This was the first report; 
but before evening it had risen to the distinct information — “Miss 
Dempster, Rosebank, is dead!” 

Fred Dirom had been on his way to Gilston, when he was stopped 
and ordered into the service of the sick woman. He answered to 
the call with the readiness of a kind heart, and was not only the 
most active and careful executor of the doctor’s orders, but remained 
after the patient was conveyed home, to be ready, he said, to run 
for anything that was wanted, to do anything that might be neces- 
sary— nay, after all was done that could be done, to comfort Miss 


EFFIE OGILVTE. 


123 


Beenie, who almost shed her tears upon the young man’s shoul- 
ders. 

“ Eh,” she said, “there’s the doctor we have aye thought so rough, 
and not a gentleman — and there’s you, young Mr. Dirom, that Sarah 
was not satisfied with for Effle; and you’ve just been like two minis- 
tering angels sent out to minister to them that are in sore trouble. 
Oh, but I wonder if she will ever be able to thank you herself. ” 

“ Not that any thanks are wanted,” cried Fred, cheerfully; “ but, 
of course, she will, much more than we deserve.” 

“ You’ve just been as kind as — I cannot find any word to say for 
it, both the doctor and you.” 

“He is a capital fellow. Miss Dempster.” 

“ Oh, do not call me Miss Dempster — not such a thing, not such a 
thing! I’m Miss Beenie. The Lord preserve me from ever being 
called Miss Dempster,” she cried, with a movement of terror. But 
Fred neither laughed at her nor her words. He was very respectful 
of her, full of pity and almost tenderness, not thinking of how much 
advantage to himself this adventure was to prove. It ran over the 
whole country-side next day, and gained “that young Dirom ” many 
a friend. 

And Effle, to whom the fall of Miss Dempster was like the fall of 
one of the familiar hills, and who only discovered how much she 
loved those oldest of friends after she began to feel as if she must 
lose them— Effle showed her sense of his good behavior in the most 
entrancing way, putting off the shy and frightened aspect with which 
she had staved off all discussion of matters more important, and be- 
ginning to treat him with a timid kindness and respect which be- 
wildered the young man. Perhaps he would rather even now have 
had something warmer and less (so to speak) accidental; but he 
was a wise young man, and contented himself with what he could 
get. 

Effle now became capable of “hearing reason,” as Mrs. Ogilvie 
said. She no longer ran away from any suggestion of the natural 
end of all such engagements. She suffered it to be concluded that 
her marriage should take place at Christmas, and gave at last a pas- 
sive consent to all the arrangements made for her. She even sub- 
mitted to her stepmother’s suggestions about the trousseau, and suf- 
fered various dresses to be chosen, and boundless orders for linen 
to be given. That she should have a fit providing and go out of 


124 


EFFIE OGTLVIE. 


her father’s house as it became a bride to do, with dozens of every 
possible undergarments, and an inexhaustible supply of handker- 
chiefs and collars, was the ambition of Mrs. Ogilvie’s heart. 

She said herself that Miss Dempster’s “stroke,” from which the 
old lady recovered slowly, was “just a providence.” It brought 
Effle to her senses, it made her see the real qualities of the young 
man whom she had not prized at his true value, and whose supe- 
riority as the best match in the country-side she could not even now 
be made to see. Effie yielded, not because he was the best match, 
but because he had shown so kind a heart, and all the preparations 
went merrily forward, and the list of the marriage-guests was made 
out and everything got ready. 

But yet, for all that, there was full time for that slip between the 
cup and the lip which so often comes in, contrary to the dearest ex- 
pectations, in human affairs. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


The slip between the cup and the lip came in two ways. The 
first was the arrival from India— in advance of Eric, who was to get 
the short leave which his stepmother thought such a piece of ex- 
travagance in order to be present at the marriage of his only sister 
—of Ronald Sutherland, in order to take possession of the inheri- 
tance which had fallen to him on the death of his uncle. 

It was not a very great inheritance— an old house with an old 
tower, the old “peel” of the Border, attached to it; a few farms, a 
little money, the succession of a family sufficiently well-known in 
the country-side, but which had never been one of the great families. 
It was not much certainly. It was no more to be compared with 
the possessions in fact and expectation of Fred Dirom than twilight 
is with day; but still it made a great difference. 

Ronald Sutherland of the 111th, serving in India with nothing at 
all but his pay, and Ronald Sutherland of Haythorn, with a commis- 
sion in her majesty’s service, were two very different persons. Mrs. 
Ogilvie allowed that had old David Hay been so sensible as to die 
three years previously she would not have been so absolutely deter- 
mined that Ronald’s suit should be kept secret from Effie; but all 
that was over, and there was no use thinking of it. It had been done 
“for the best,” and what it had produced was unquestionably the 
best. 

If it had so happened that EflBe had never got another “offer,” 
then, indeed, there might have been something to regret; but as, on 
the contrary, she had secured the best match in the county, her 
stepmother still saw no reason for anything but satisfaction in her 
own diplomacy. It had been done for the best; and it had succeed- 
ed, which is by no means invariably the case. 

But Mrs. Ogilvie allowed that she was a little anxious about Ronald’s 
first appearance at Gilston. It was inevitable that he should come; 
for all the early years of his life Gilston had been a second home to 
him. He had been in and out like one of the children of the house. 


126 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


Mrs. Ogilvie declared that she had always said that where there were 
girls this was a most imprudent thing; but she allowed at the same 
time that it is difficult to anticipate the moment wdien a girl will be- 
come marriageable, and had better be kept out of knowing and sight 
of the ineligible, so long as that girl is a child. Consequently, she 
did not blame her predecessor, Effie’s mother, for permitting an in- 
timacy which at six was innocent enough, though it became dan- 
gerous at sixteen. 

“Even me,” she said, candidly, “ I cannot throw my mind so far 
forward as to see any risks that little Annabella Johnston can run 
in seeing Rory every day — though sixteen years hence it will be dif- 
ferent; for Rory, to be sure, will never be an eligible young man as 
long as his stepbrother Eric is to the fore— and God forbid that any- 
thing should happen to Eric,” she added, piously. 

On this ground, and also because Ronald had the latest news to 
give of Eric, it was impossible to shut him out of Gilston, though 
Mrs. Ogilvie could not but feel that it was very bad taste of him to 
appear with these troubled and melancholy airs, and to look at Eflfle 
as he did. It was not that he made any attempt to interfere with 
the settlement of affairs. He made the proper congratulations, 
though in a very stiff and formal way, and said he hoped that they 
w'ould be happy. But there was an air about him which was very 
likely to make an impression on a silly, romantic girl. 

He was handsomer than Fred Dirom— he was bronzed with Indian 
suns, which gave him a manly look. He had seen a little service, he 
was taller than Fred, stronger, with all those qualities which women 
specially esteem. And he looked at Effie when she was not observ- 
ing— oh, but Mrs. Ogilvie said, “ It is not an easy thing to tell when 
a girl is not observing! for all that kind of thing they are always 
quick enough.” 

And as a matter of fact, Effie observed keenly, and most keenly, 
perhaps, when she had the air of taking no notice. The first time 
this long, loosely clothed, somewhat languid, although well-built and 
manly figure had come in, Effie had felt, by the sudden jump of her 
heart, that it w^as no ordinary visitor. He had been something like 
a second brother when he went away, Eric’s invariable companion, 
another Eric with hardly any individual claim of his own; but every- 
thing now was very different. She said to herself that this jump of 
her heart which had surprised her so much, had come when she 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


127 


iicartl his step drawing near the door, so that it must be surely his 
connection with Eric and not anything in himself that had done it; 
but this was a poor and unsatisfactory explanation. 

After that first visit in which he had hoped that Miss Effie would 
be very happy, and said everything that was proper, Effie knew al- 
most as well as if she had been informed from the first, all that had 
passed; his eyes conveyed to her an amount of information which 
he was, little aware of. She recognized with many tremors and a 
strange force of divination, not only that there had been things said 
and steps taken before his departure of which she had never been 
told, but also, as well as if it had been put into words, that he had 
come home happy in the thought of the fortune which now would 
make him more acceptable in the eyes of the father and stepmother, 
building all manner of castles in the air; and that all these fairy fab- 
rics had fallen with a crash, and he had awakened painfully from 
his dream to hear of her engagement, and that a few weeks more 
would see her Fred Dirom’s wife. 

The looks he cast at her, the looks which he averted, the thrill im- 
perceptible to the others which went over him when he took her 
hand at coming and going, were all eloquent to Effie. All that she 
had felt for Fred Dirom at the moment when the genuine emotion 
in him had touched her to the warmest sympathy, was nothing like 
that which penetrated her heart at Ronald’s hasty, self-restrained, 
and, as far as he was aware, self-concealing glance. 

In a moment the girl perceived, with a mingled thrill of painful 
pleasure and anguish, what might have been. It was one of those 
sudden perceptions which light up the whole moral landscape in a 
moment, as a sudden flash of lightning reveals the hidden expanse of 
storm and sea. 

Such intimations are most often given when they are ineffectual— 
not when they might guide the mind to a choice which would secure 
its happiness, but after all such possibilities are over and that hap- 
py choice can never be made. When he had gone away Effie slid 
out of sight too, and sought the shelter of her room, that little 
sanctuary which had hidden so many agitations within the last few 
weeks, but none so tremendous as this. The discovery seemed to 
stun her. She could only sit still and look at it, her bosom heaving, 
her heart beating loudly, painfully, like a funeral toll against her 
breast. 


128 


EFFIE OGILVIE, 


So, she said to herself, that might have been, and this was. No, 
she did not say it to herself; such discoveries are not made by any 
rational and independent action of mind. It was imt before her by 
that visionary second which is always with us in all our mental op- 
erations, the spectator “ qui me reserriblait comme mo7i frere” whom 
the poet saw in every crisis of his career. That spiritual spectator 
who is so seldom a counsellor, whose office is to show the might- 
have-beens of life and to confound the helpless, unwarned sufferer 
with the sight of his mistakes when they are past, set this swiftly 
and silently before her with the force of a conviction. This might 
have been the real hero, this was the true companion, the mate con- 
genial, the one in the world for Effie. But in the moment of be- 
holding she knew that it was never to be. 

And this was not her fault — which made it the more confusing, 
the more miserable. When it is ourselves who have made the mis- 
take that spoils our lives, we have, at least, had something for it, 
the gratification of having IJkd our own way, the pleasure of going 
wrong. But Efiie had not even secured this pleasure. She would be 
the sufferer for other people’s miscalculations and mistakes. All 
this that concerned her so deeply she had never known. She'faced 
the future with all the more dismay that it thus appeared to her to 
be spoiled for no end, destroyed at once for herself and Ronald and 
Fred. For what advantage could it be to Fred to have a wife who 
felt that he was not her chief good, that her happiness was with an- 
other? Something doubly poignant was in the feeling with which 
the poor girl perceived this. 

Fred even, poor Fred, whom she approved and liked and sympa- 
thized with, and did all but love— Fred would be none the better. 
He would be wronged even in having his heart’s desire conceded to 
him, whereas — it all came before Effie with another flash of realiza- 
tion— Fred would never have thought of her in that way had she 
been pledged to Ronald. They would have been friends — oh, such 
good friends. She would have been able to appreciate all his good 
qualities, the excellence that was in him, and no close and inappro- 
priate relationship could have been formed between the two who 
were not made for each other. 

But now all was wrong. It was Fred and she, who might have 
been such excellent friends, who were destined to work through life 
together, badly matched, not right, not right, whatever might hap- 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


129 


pen. If trouble came she would not know how to comfort him as 
she would have known how to comfort Ronald. She would not 
kn^VEow to help him. How was it she had not thought of that 
before? They belonged to different worlds, not to the same world 
as she and Ronald did, and when the first superficial charm was over, 
and different habits, different associations, life, which was altogether 
pitched upon a different key, began to tell. 

Alarm seized upon Effle, and dismay. She had been frightened 
before at the setting-up of a new life which she felt no wish for, no 
impulse to embrace; but she had not thought how different was the 
life of Allonby from that of Gilston, and her modest notions of rus- 
tic gentility from the luxury and show to which the rich man’s son 
had been accustomed. Doris and Phyllis and their ways of thought, 
and their habits of existence, came before her in a moment as part 
of the strange, shifting panorama which encompassed her about. 
How was she to get to think as they did, to accustom herself to 
their ways of living? She had wondered and smiled, and in her 
heart unconsciously criticised these ways; but that was Fred’s way 
as well as theirs. And how was she with her country prejudices, 
her Scotch education, her limitations, her different standard, how 
was she to fit into it? But with Ronald she would have dwelt 
among her own people — oh, the different life! Oh, the things that 
might have been! 

Poor Ronald went his way sadly from the same meeting with a 
consciousness that was sharp and confusing and terrible. After the 
first miserable shock of disappointment which he had felt on hear- 
ing of Effie’s engagement he had conversed much with himself. 
He had said to himself that she was little more than a child when he 
had set his boyish heart upon her, that since then a long time had 
passed, momentous years ; that he had changed in many ways, and 
that she too must have changed — that the mere fact ot her engage- 
ment must have made a great difference— that she had bound her- 
self to another kind of existence, not anything he knew, and that it 
was not possible that the betrothed of another man could be any 
longer the little Effle of his dreams. 

But he had looked at her, and he had felt that he was mistaken. She 
was his Effle, not that other man’s; there was nothing changed in 
her, only perfected and made more sweet. Very few were the 
words that passed between them— few looks even, for they were 
9 


130 


EFFIE OGLLVIE. 


afraid to look at each other— but even that unnatural reluctance said 
more than words. He it was who was her mate, not the stranger, 
the Englishman, the millionnaire, whose ways and the ways of his 
people were not as her ways. 

And yet it was too late! He could neither say anything nor do 
anything to show to Effie that she had made a mistake, that it was 
he, Konald, whom Heaven had intended for her. The young man, we 
may be sure, saw nothing ludicrous in this conviction that was in his 
mind ; but he could not plead it. He went home to the old-fashioned, 
homely house, which he said to himself no wife of his should ever 
make bright, in which he would settle down, no doubt, like his 
old uncle, and grow into an old misanthrope, a crotchety original, 
as his predecessor had done. Poor old Uncle David! what was it 
that had made him so? perhaps a fatal mistake, occurring somehow 
by no fault of his — perhaps a little Effie thrown away upon a 
stranger too — 

“What made you ask him to his dinner, though I made you signs 
to the contrary?” said Mrs. Ogilvie to her husband, as soon as, each 
in a different direction, the two young people had disappeared. 
“You might have seen I was not wanting him to his dinner; but 
when was there ever a man that could tell the meaning of a look? 
I might have spared my pains.” 

“ And why should he not be asked to his dinner?” said Mr, Ogil- 
vie. “You go beyond my understanding. Konald Sutherland, a 
lad that I have known since he was tJiat high, and his father and his 
grandfather before him. I think the woman is going out of her wits. 
Because you’re marrying Effie to one of those rich upstarts, am I 
never to ask a decent lad here?” 

“You and your decent lads!” said his wife; she was at the end 
of her Latin, as the French say, and of her patience too. “Just 
listen to me,' Robert,” she added, with that calm of exasperation 
which is sometimes so impressive. ‘ ‘ I’m marrying Effie, since you 
like to put it that way (and it’s a great deal more than any of her 
relations would have had the sense to do), to the best match on all this 
side of Scotland. I’m not saying this county ; there’s nobody in the 
county that is in any way on the same footing as Fred. There is 
rank, to be sure, but as for money he could buy them all up, and 
settlements just such as were never heard of. Well, that’s what I’m 
doing, if you give me the credit of it. But there’s just one little 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


131 


binderance, and that’s Ronald Sutherland. If he’s to come here on 
the . groun d of your knowing him since he was that high, and being 
Eric’s friend — that’s to say, like a son of the house — I have just this 
to say, Robert, that I will not answer for Effle, and this great match 
may not take place after all.” 

“ What do you mean, you daft woman? Do you mean to tell me 
there has been any carrying-on, any correspondence — ” 

“Have some respect to your own child, Robert, if not to your 
wife. Am I a woman to allow any carrying-on? And Effle, to do 
her justice, though she has very little sense in some respects, is not 
a creature of that kind; ahd mind, she never heard a word of yon 
old story. No, no, it’s not that. But it’s a great deal worse — it’s 
just this, that there’s an old kindness, and they know each other far 
better than either Effle or you or me knows Fred Dirom. They are 
the same kind of person, and they have things to talk about if once 
they begin. And, in short, I cannot tell you all my drithers — but 
I’m very clear on this. If you want that marriage to come off, 
which is the best match that’s been made in Dumfriesshire for gen- 
erations, just you keep Ronald Sutherland at arm’s-length, and 
take care you don’t ask him here to his dinner every second day.” 

“I am not so fond of having strangers to dinner,” said Mr. Ogil- 
vie, with great truth. “It’s very rarely that the invitation comes 
from me. And as for your prudence and your wisdom and your 
grand managing, it might perhaps be just as well, on the whole, for 
Effle if she had two strings to her bow.” 

Mrs. Ogilvie uttered a suppressed shriek in her astonishment. 
“For any sake! what, in the name of all that’s wonderful, are you 
meaning now?” 

“You give me no credit for ever meaning anything, or taking the 
least interest, so far as I can see, in what’s happening in my own 
family,” said the head of the house, standing on his dignity. 

“Oh, Robert, man! didn’t I send the young man to you, and 
would not listen to him myself! I said her father is the right per- 
son; and so you were, and very well you managed it, as you always 
do when you will take the trouble. But what is this about a second 
string to her bow?” 

Mr. Ogilvie se faisait prier. He would not, at first, relinquish the 
pride of superior knowledge. At last, when his wife had been tan- 
talized sufflciently, he opened his budget. 


132 


EFFEE OGILVEE. 


“ The truth is that things, very queer things, are said in London 
about Dirom’s house. There is a kind of a hint in the money article 
of the Times. You would not look at that, even if we got the Times. 
I saw it yesterday in Dumfries. They say ‘ a great firm that has 
gone largely into mines of late ’ — and something about Basinghall 
Street, and a hope that their information may not be correct, and 
that sort of thing — which means more even than it says.” 

“ Lord preserve us!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. She sat down, in her con- 
sternation, upon Rory’s favorite toy lamb, which uttered the squeak 
peculiar to such pieces of mechanism. Probably this helped to in- 
crease her annoyance. She seized it with impatient warmth and 
fiung it on the fioor. 

‘ ■ The horrible little beast 1 But, Robert, this may be just a rumor. 
There are plenty of firms that do business in mines, and as for Bas- 
inghall Street, it’s just a street of oflflces. My own uncle had a place 
of business there.” 

“You’ll see I’m right for all that,” said her husband, piqued to 
have his information doubted. 

“Well, I’ll see it when I do see it; but I have just the most per- 
fect confidence — What is this, George? Is there no answer? 
Well, you need not wait.” 

“ I was to wait, mem,” said George, “ to let the cook ken if there 
was nobody expected to their dinner; for in that case, mem, there 
was yon birds that was quite good, that could keep to another day.” 

“ Cook’s just very impatient to send me such a message. Oh, well, 
you may tell her that there will be nobody to dinner. Mr. Dirom 
has to go to London in a hurry,” she said, half for the servant and 
half for her husband. She turned a glance full of alarm, yet defi- 
ance, upon the latter as old George trotted away. 

“Well, what do you say to that?” cried Mr. Ogilvie, with a mix- 
ture of satisfaction and vexation. 

“I just say what I said before— that I’ve perfect confidence.” 
But nevertheless a cloud hung all the rest of the day upon Mrs. 
Ogilvie’s brow. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Two or three days had passed after Fred’s departure, when Mrs. 
Ogilvie stated her intention of going to Allonby to call upon his 
mother. 

“You have not been there for a long time, Effle. You have just 
contented yourself with Fred — which is natural enough; I say noth- 
ing against that — and left the sisters alone who have always been so 
kind to you. It was perhaps not to be wondered at, but still I would 
not have done it. If they were not just very good-natured and ready 
to make the best of everything, they might think you were neglect- 
ing them, now that you have got Fred.” 

As was natural, Effle was much injured and offended by this sug- 
gestion. 

“I have never neglected them,” she said. “I never went but 
when they asked me, and they have not asked me for a long time. 
It is their fault.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “it is winter weather, and there is 
nothing going on. Your tennis and all that is stopped, and yet 
there’s no frost for skating. But whether they have asked you or 
not, just put on your new frock and come over with me. They are 
perhaps in some trouble, for anything we can tell.” 

“ In trouble? How could they be in trouble?” 

“Do you think, you silly thing, that they are free of trouble 
because they’re so well off? No, no; there are plenty of things to 
vex you in this world, however rich you may be; though you are 
dressed in silks and satins and eat off silver plate, and have all the 
delicacies of the season upon your table, like daily bread, you will 
find that you have troubles with it, all the same, just like ordinary 
folk.” 

Effle thought truly that she had no need of being taught that les- 
son. She knew far better than her stepmother what trouble was. 
She was going to marry Fred Dirom, and yet, if her heart had its 
way ! And she could not blame anybody, not even herself, for the 


134 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


position in whicli she was. It had come about — she could not tell 
how or why. 

But she could not associate Phyllis and Doris with anything that 
could be called trouble. Neither was her mind at all awake or im- 
pressionable on this subject. To lose money was to her the least of 
all inconveniences, a thing not to be counted as trouble at all. She 
had never known anything about money, neither the pleasure of 
possession nor the vexation of losing it. Her indifference was that 
of entire ignorance; it seemed to her a poor thing to distress one’s 
self about. 

She put on her new frock, however, as she was commanded, to 
pay the visit, and drove to Allonby with her stepmother, much as 
she had driven on that momentous day when for the first time she 
had seen them all, and when Mrs. Ogilvie had carried on a mono- 
logue, just as she was doing now, though not precisely to the same 
effect and under circumstances so changed. Efiie then had been ex- 
cited about the sisters and a little curious about the brother, amused 
and pleased with the new acquaintances to be made, and the novel- 
ty of the proceeding altogether. Now there was no longer any 
novelty. She was on the eve of becoming a member of the family, 
and it was with a very different degree of seriousness and interest 
that she contemplated them and their ways. But still Mrs. Ogilvie 
was full of speculation. 

“I wonder,” she said, “if they will say anything about what is 
going on? You have had no right explanation, so far as I am aware, 
of Fred’s hurrying away like yon; I think he should have given you 
more explanation. And I wonder if they will say anything about 
that report — And, Efiie, I wonder — ” It appeared to Efiie as 
they drove along that all that had passed in the meantime was a 
dream, and that Mrs. Ogilvie was wondering again as when they 
had first approached the unknown household upon that fateful day. 

Doris and Phyllis were seated in a room with which neither Efiie 
nor her stepmother were familiar, and which was not dark, and bore 
but few marks of the amendments and rearrangements which occu* 
pied the family so largely on their first arrival at Allonby. Perhaps 
their interest had flagged in the embellishment of the old house, 
Which was no longer a stranger to them ; or perhaps the claims of 
comfort were paramount in November. There was still a little af- 
ternoon sunshine coming in to help the comfortable fire which 


EFFTE OGILVIE. 


135 


blazed so clieerfully, and Lady Allonby’s old sofas and easy-cbairs 
were very snug in the warm atmosphere. 

The young ladies were, as was usual to them, doing nothing in 
particular, and they were very glad to welcome visitors, any visitor, 
to break the monotony of the afternoon. There was not the slight- 
est diminution visible of their friendship for Effie, which is a thing 
that sometimes happens when the sister’s friend becomes the fiancee 
of the brother. They fell upon her with open arms. 

‘‘ Why, it is Effie! How nice of you to come just when we wanted 
you,” they cried, making very little count of Mrs. Ogilvie. Mothers 
and stepmothers were of the opposite faction, and Doris and Phyllis 
did not pretend to take any interest in them. “Mother will be here 
presently, ” they said to her, and no more. But Effie they led to a 
sofa and surrounded with attentions. 

“We have not seen you for an age. You are going to say it is our 
fault, but it is not our fault. You have Fred constantly at Gilston, 
and you did not want us there too. No, three of one family would 
be insufferable; you couldn’t have wanted us; and what was the use 
of asking you to come here, when Fred was always with you at your 
own house? Now that he is away we were wondering would you 
come — I said yes, I felt sure you would; but Doris — ” 

“Doris is never so confident as her sister,” said that young lady, 
“and when a friendship that has begun between girls runs into a 
love affair, one never can know. ” 

“It was not any doing of mine that it ran into — anything,” said 
Effie, indignant. “I liked you the — ” She was going to say the 
best, which was not civil certainly to the absent Fred, and would 
not have been true. But partly prudence restrained her, and partly 
Phyllis, who gave her at that moment a sudden kiss, and declared « 
that she had always said that Effie was a dear. 

“And no doubt you have heard from your brother,” said Mrs. 
Ogilvie, who was not to be silenced, “and has he got his business 
done? I hope everything is satisfactory, and nothing to make your 
good father and mother anxious. These kind of cares do not tell 
upon the young, but when people are getting up in years it’s then 
that business really troubles them. We have been thinking a great 
deal of your worthy father — Mr. Ogilvie and me. I hope he is see- 
ing his way—” 

The young ladies stared at her for a moment, in the intervals of 


136 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


various remarks to EfBe; and tlien Doris said, with a little evident 
effort, as of one who wanted to be civil, yet not to conceal that she 
was bored, “ Oh, you mean about the firm? Of course, we are inter- 
ested ; it would make such a change, you know. I have taken all 
my measures, however, and I feel sure I shall be the greatest suc- 
cess.” 

“I was speaking of real serious business. Miss Doris. Perhaps I 
was just a fool for my pains, for they would not put the like of that 
before you. No, no, I am aware it was just very silly of me; but 
since it has been settled between Effie and Mr. Fred I take a great 
interest. I am one that takes a great deal of thought, more than I 
get any thanks for, of all my friends.” 

“I should not like to trouble about all my friends, for then one 
would never be out of it,” said Doris, calmly. “Of course, how- 
ever, you must be anxious about Fred. There is less harm, though, 
with him than with most young men; for you know if the worst 
comes to the worst he has got a profession. I cannot say that 1 have 
a profession, but still it comes almost to the same thing; for I have 
quite made up my mind what to do. It is a pity, Effie,” she said, 
turning to the audience she preferred, “if the Great Smash is going 
to come that it should not come before you are married; for then I 
could dress you, which would be good for both of us — an advantage 
to your appearance, and a capital advertisement for me.” 

“ That is all very well for her,” said Phyllis, plaintively. “ She 
talks at her ease about the Great Smash ; but I should have nothing 
to do except to marry somebody, which would be no joke at all for 
me.” 

“ The Great Smash,” repeated Mrs. Ogilvie, aghast. All the color 
• had gone out of her face. She turned from one to the other with 
dismay. “ Then am I to understand that it has come to that?” she 
cried, with despair in her looks. “Oh! Effie, Effie, did you hear 
them? The Great Smash!” 

“Who said that?” said another voice — a soft voice grown harsh, 
sweet bells jangled out of tune. There had been a little nervous 
movement of the handle of the door some moments before, and now 
Mrs. Dirom came in quickly, as if she had been listening to what 
was said, and was too much excited and distracted to remember that 
it was evident that she had been listening. She came in in much 
haste and with a heated air. 


EPFIE OGILVTE. 


137 


“If you credit these silly girls you will believe anything. What 
do they know? A Great Smash — !” Her voice trembled as she 
said the words. “It’s ridiculous, and it’s vulgar too. I wonder 
where they learned such words. I would not repeat them if I could 
help it — if it were not necessary to make you understand. There 
will he no smash, Mrs. Ogilvie, neither great nor small. Do you 
know what you are talking of? The great house of the Diroms, 
which is as sure as the Bank of England? It is their joke, it is the 
way they talk; nothing is sacred for them. They don’t know what 
the credit of a great firm means. There is no more danger of our 
firm — no more danger— than there is of the Bank of England. ” 

The poor lady was so much disturbed that her voice, and, indeed, 
her whole person, which was substantial, trembled. She dropped 
suddenly into a chair, and, taking up one of the Japanese fans which 
were everywhere about, fanned herself violently, though it was late 
November, and the day was cold. 

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “lam sorry if I have put you 
about; I had no thought that it was serious at all, I just asked the 
question for conversation’s sake. I never could have supposed for 
a moment that the great house, as you say, of Dirom & Co. could 
ever take it in a serious light.” 

Upon this poor Mrs. Dirom put down her fan, and laughed some- 
what loudly— a laugh that was harsh and strained, and in which was 
no confidence. 

“That is quite true,” she said, “Mrs. Ogilvie. You are full of 
sense, as I have always said. It is only a thing to laugh at. Their 
papa would be very much amused if he were to hear. But it makes 
me angry when I have no occasion to be angry, for it is so silly. If 
it were said by other people I should take it with a smile; but to 
hear my own children talking such nonsense, it is this that makes 
me angry. If it were any one else I shouldn’t mind. ” 

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I understand that; for if other 
people make fools of themselves it is of no particular consequence; 
but when it’s your own it’s a different matter. But Miss Doris, I 
suppose, has just taken a notion into her head, and she does not care 
what it costs to carry it out. Effie, now, really we must go. It is 
getting quite dark, the days are so short. No, I thank you, we’ll not 
take any tea; for Mr. Ogilvie has taken a habit of coming in for his 
cup of tea, and he just cannot bear us to be away. When a man 


13S 


EFFIE OGILYIE. 


takes a notion of that kind, the ladies of his family just have to give 
in to it. Good-bye, young ladies, good-bye. But I hope you’ll not be 
disappointed to find that there’s no Great Smash coming; for I don’t 
think that I should relish it at all if it were me.” 

They had a silent drive home. Effie had so many thoughts at that 
mome'nt that she was always glad, when she could, to return into 
them. She thought no more of the Great Smash than of any other 
of the nonsensical utterances which it might have pleased Doris to 
make. Indeed, the Great Smash, even if it had been certain, would 
not have affected her mind much, so entirely unconscious was she 
what its meaning might be. She retired into her own thoughts, 
which were many, without having received any impression from this 
new subject. 

But it vaguely surprised her that her stepmother should be so 
silent. She was so accustomed to that lively monologue which 
served as a background to all manner of thoughts, that Elfie was 
more or less disturbed by its failure, without knowing why. Mrs. 
Ogilvie scarcely said a word all the way home. It was incredible, 
but it was true. Her friends would scarcely have believed it — they 
would have perceived that matters must have been very serious in- 
deed, before she could be reduced to such silence. But Effie was 
heedless, and did not ask herself what the reason was. 

This was the evening that Ronald had been invited “to his din- 
ner,” an invitation which had called forth a protest from Mrs. Ogil- 
vie; but, notwithstanding, she was very kind to Ronald. It was 
Effie, not she, who kept him at a distance, who avoided any conver- 
sation except the vaguest, and, indeed, sat almost silent all the even- 
ing, as if her lover being absent she had no attention to bestow upon 
another. That was not the real state of Effie’s mind; but a delicate 
instinct drew her away, and gave her a refuge in the silence which 
looked like indifference. 

Mrs. Ogilvie, however, showed no indifference to Ronald. She 
questioned him about his house, and with all the freedom which old 
family connection permitted, about the fortune which he had “ come 
into,” about what he meant to do, and many other subjects. Ronald 
gave her, with much gravity, the information she asked. He told 
her no— that he did not mean to remain— that he was going back to 
his regiment. Why should he stay, there was nothing for him to do 
at Haythorne? 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


13d 


“Hoot,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “there is always this to do, that you 
must marry and settle; that is the right thing for a young man. To 
be sure, when there is no place to take a wife home to, but just to 
follow the regiment, that’s very different; for parents that are in 
their senses would never let a girl do that. But when you have the 
house first, then the wife must follow. It is just the right order of 
things.” 

“For some men,” said Ronald, “but not for me; it is either too 
early, or, perhaps, too late.” 

“ Oh, too late! a lad like you to speak such nonsense! — and there’s 
never any saying what may happen,” the lady said. This strange 
speech made two hearts beat: Ronald’s with great surprise and de- 
vouring curiosity. Had he perhaps been premature in thinking that 
all was settled — was it a mistake? But oh, no, he remembered that 
he had made his congratulations, and they had been received; that 
Eric was coming back to the marriage; that already the wedding- 
guests were being invited, and all was in train. Effie’s heart beat 
too, where she sat silent at a distance, close to the lamp, on pretence 
of needing light for her work; but it was with a muffled, melancholy 
movement, no sign of hope or possibility in it, only the stir of regret 
and trouble over what might have been. 

“Are you going to write letters at this time of night?” said Mr. 
Ogilvie, as he came back from the door, after seeing Ronald away. 

“Just one, Robert; I cannot bear this suspense if the rest of you 
can. I am going to write to my Cousin John, who is a business 
man, and has his office, as his father had before him, in Basinghall 
Street in London city. I am going to ask him a question or two.” 

“If I were you,” said Mr, Ogilvie, with some energy, “I would 
neither make nor meddle in other folk’s affairs.” 

“What do you call other folk’s affairs? It is my own folk’s 
affairs. If there ever was a thing that was our business and not 
another’s, it’s this. Do you think I would ever permit— and there 
is very little time to be lost. I wonder I never thought of J ohn before 
—he is just the person to let me know.” 

Mr. Ogilvie put his hands behind his back, and walked up and 
down the room in great perturbation. 

“ I cannot see my way to making that kind of inquiry. It might 
do harm, and I don’t see what good it can do. It might set people 
thinking. It might bring on just what we’re wanting to avoid.” 


140 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 


“lam wanting to know, that is all,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “ As for 
setting people thinking, that’s done, as you’re aware. And if it’s 
done down here, what must it be in the city? But I must be at the 
bottom of it, whether it’s false or whether it’s true.” 

Mr. Ogilvie was not accustomed to such energy. He said, “ Tchk, 
tchk, tchk,” as people do so o^en in perplexity; and then he caught 
sight of his daughter, holding Rory’s little stocking in the lamplight, 
and knitting with nervous fingers. It was a good opportunity for 
getting rid of the irritation which any new thing raised in him. 

“ Surely,” he said, with an air of virtuous indignation, “ it is high 
time that Eflie, at least, should be in her bed!” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“Yes, Ronald, my man. It was a great peety,” Miss Dempster 
said. 

She was lying on a sofa in the little drawing-room, between the 
fireplace and the window, where she could both feel and see the fire, 
and yet command a glimpse of the village and Dr. Jardine’s house. 
She could still see the window to which the doctor came defiantly 
when he took his mid-morning refreshment, to let the ladies at Rose- 
bank see that he was not afraid of them. 

The relations between the doctor and the ladies had modified a 
little, but still that little conflict went on. He did not any longer 
nod at them with the “Here’s to you!” of his old fury at what he 
thought their constant espionage, but he still flaunted his dram before 
their eyes, and still they made mental notes on the subject, and Miss 
Beenie shook her head. She did not say, “ There’s that abominable 
man with his dram again. I am sure I cannot think how respect- 
able people can put up with that smell of whiskey. Did you say 
sherry? Well, sherry is very near as bad taken at all hours.” 

What Miss Beenie said now was: “I wish the doctor would take 
a cup of tea or even a little broth instead of that wine. No doubt 
he wants support with all he has to do; but the other would be far 
better for him.” 

This will show how the relations had improved. He had brought 
Miss Dempster “through.” Instead of her bedroom at the back of 
the house, which allowed of little diversion, she had got so far as to 
be removed to the drawing-room, and lie on the sofa for the greater 
part of the day. It was a great improvement, and people who knew 
no better believed that the old lady was getting better. Miss Beenie 
was warmly of this opinion; she held it with such heat indeed that 
she might have been supposed to be not so certain as she said. 

But Miss Dempster and the doctor knew better. The old lady 
was more than ever distressed that Providence had not taken better 
care of the affairs of Effie Ogilvie. It was this she was saying to 


142 


EFFDE OGILVIE. 


Ronald, as he sat beside her. He had come over with some birds 
and a great bunch of hothouse grapes. He was, as the reader may 
remember, a connection — even. Miss Beenie said, a near connection ; 
and the ladies had been good to him in his early youth. 

“Yes, it was a great peety,” Miss Dempster said. “I am not 
grudging your uncle Dauvid a day of his life, honest man, but the 
last three months is never much of a boon, as I know by myself. It 
would have done him no harm, and you a great deal of good. But 
there’s just a kind of a blundering in these things that is very hard to 
understand.” 

“The chances are it would have made no difference/’ said the 
young man, “ so there is nothing to be said.” 

“It would have made a great difference*, but we’ll say nothing, 
all the same. And so you’re asked to the wedding? Well, that wom- 
an is not blate. She’s interfered with the course of nature and thinks 
no shame; but perhaps she will get her punishment sooner than 
she’s looking for. They tell me, ” said the old lady, ‘ ‘ that the Diroms 
have had losses, and that probably they will have to leave Allonby 
and come down in their grand way of living. I will say that of 
Janet Ogilvie that she has a great spirit; she’ll set her face like 
a rock. The wedding will be just as grand and as much fuss 
made, and nobody will hear a word from her; she is a woman that 
can keep her own counsel. But she’ll be gnashing her teeth all the 
same. She will just be in despair that she cannot get out of it. Oh, 
I know her well ! If it had been three months off, instead of three 
weeks, she would have shaken him off. I have always said Effle’s 
heart was not in it; but however her heart had been in it, her step- 
mother would have had her way.” 

“We must be charitable, Ave must think ill of nobody,” said Miss 
Beenie. “I’m too thankful, for my part, to say an ill word, now 
you’re getting well again.” 

“She might have done all that and done nothing wrong,” said 
Miss Dempster, sharply. And then Ronald rose to go away; he had 
no desire to hear such possibilities discussed. If it had not been 
for Eric’s expected arrival he would have gone away before now. 
It was nothing but misery, he said, to himself, to see EfBe, and to 
think that had he been three months sooner, as his old friends said! 

But no, he would not believe that; it was injurious to Effie to 
think that the first who appeared was her choice. He grew red and 


EFPIE OGILVIE. 


143 


hot with generous shame and contempt of himself when he thought 
that this was what he was attributing to one so spotless and so true. 
The fact that she had consented to marry Fred Dirom, was not that 
enough to prove his merit, to prove that she would never have re- 
garded any other? What did it not say for a man, the fact that he 
had been chosen by Effle? It was the finest proof that he was every- 
thing a man could be. 

Ronald had never seen this happy hero. No doubt there had 
been surgings of heart against him, and fits of sorrowful fury when 
he first knew; but the idea that he was Eflie’s choice sileneed the 
young man. He himself could have nothing to do with that, he 
had not even the right to complain. He had to stand aside and see 
it accomplished. All that the old lady said about the chances of 
the three months too late was folly. It was one of the strange ways 
of women that they should think so. It was a wrong to Effie, who, 
not by any guidance of chance, not because (oh, horror!) this Dirom 
fellow was the first to ask her, for nothing but pure love and prefer- 
ence (of which no man was worthy) had chosen him from the 
world. 

Ronald, thinking these thoughts, which were not cheerful, walked 
down the slope between the laurel hedges with steps much slower 
and less decided than his ordinary manly tread. He was a very dif- 
ferent type of humanity from Fred Dirom — not nearly so clever, be 
it said, knowing not half so much, handsomer, taller, and stronger, 
without any subtlety about him or power of divination, seeing very 
clearly what was before him with a pair of keen and clear blue 
eyes, straightforward as an arrow; but with no genius for complica- 
tion nor much knowledge of the modifying effect of circumstances. 
He liked or he did not like, he approved or he did not approve; and 
all of these things strenuously, with the force of a nature which 
was entirely honest, and knew no guile. 

Such a man regards a decision as irrevocable, he understands no 
playing with possibilities. It did not occur to him to make any 
effort to shake Effie’s allegiance to her betrothed, or to trouble her 
with any disclosure of his own sentiments. He accepted what was, 
with that belief in the certainty of events which belongs to what is 
called the practical or positive nature in the new jargon, to the 
simple and primitive mind, that is to say. Ronald, who was him- 
self as honest as the day, considered it the first principle in exist- 


144 


EFPIE OGILVIE. 


ence that his fellow - creatures were honest too, that they meant 
what they said, and when they had decided upon a course of action 
did not intend to he turned from it, whatever it might cost to carry 
it out. 

Therefore it was not in this straightforward young man to under- 
stand all the commotion which was in poor little EflSe’s mind when 
she avoided him, cast down her eyes not to meet his, and made the 
shortest answers to the few remarks he ventured to address to her. 
It hurt him that she should be so distant, making him wonder 
whether she thought so little of him as to suppose that he would 
give her any annoyance, say anything or even look anything to dis- 
turb her mind. 

How little she knew him! but not so little as he knew her. They 
met this day, as fate would have it, at the gate of Kosebank, and 
were obliged to stop and talk for a minute, and even to walk along 
with each other for the few steps during which their road lay in 
the same direction. They did not know what to say to each other; 
he because he knew his mind so well, she because she knew hers so 
imperfectly, and felt her position so much. 

Effie was in so strange a condition that it seemed to her she would 
like to tell Ronald everything; how she was going to marry Fred, 
she could not tell why — because she had not liked to give him pain 
by refusing him, because she seemed not to be able to do anything 
else. She did not know why she wanted to tell this to Ronald, 
which she would not have done to any one else. There seemed to 
be some reason why he should know the real state of affairs, a sort 
of apology to make, an explanation — she could not tell what. 

But when they stood face to face, neither Ronald nor she could 
find anything to say. He gave the report of Miss Dempster that 
she was a little better; that was the bulletin which by tacit agree- 
ment was always given — she was a little better, but still a great in- 
valid. When that subject was exhausted, they took refuge in Eric. 
When was he expected? though the consciousness in both their 
minds that it was for the wedding he was coming was a sad ob- 
stacle to speech, 

“ He is expected in three weeks. He is starting, I suppose, now,” 
Effie said, 

“Yes, he must be starting now—” And then they both paused, 
with the strongest realization of the scene that would ensue. Effie 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


145 


saw herself a bride far more clearly at that moment through the 
eyes, so to speak, of Ronald, than she ever had through those of the 
man who was to be her husband. 

“ I think I shall go back with him when he goes,” said Ronald, 
“if I don’t start before.” 

“ Are you going back?” 

He smiled as if it had been very ridiculous to ask him such a ques- 
tion. 

• “What else,” he said — there seemed a sort of sad scorn in the 
inquiry — “ What else is left for me to do?” Perhaps he would have 
liked to put it more strongly — What else have you left me to do? 

“I am very sorry,” said Ethe, “I thought — ”and then she aban- 
doned this subject altogether. “Do you think Eric will see much 
change?” she said. 

“ Eric! Oh, yes; he will see a great deal of change. The coun- 
try and all look the same to be sure ; it is the people who alter. He 
will see a great deal of change in you. Miss Ogilvie.” 

Effie looked up with tears starting in her eyes as if he had given 
her a sudden bloAv. 

“ Oh, Ronald! why do you call me that — am I not Effie — al- 
'^ays — ” And there came a little sob in her throat, stopping further 
utterance. 

He looked as if he could have cried too, but smiled instead strange- 
ly, and said, “ When you have another name, how am I to call you 
by that? I must try and begin now.” 

“ But I shall always be Effie, always,” she said. 

Ronald did not make any reply. He raised his hands in a mo- 
mentary protestation, and gave her a look which said more than he 
had ever said in words. And then they walked on a few steps to- 
gether in silence, and then stopped and shook hands silently with a 
mutual impulse, and said to each other “good-bye.” 

When Effie got near home, still full of agitation from this strange 
little opening and closing of she knew not what — some secret page 
in her own history, inscribed with a record she had known nothing of 
—she met her stepmother, who was returning very alert and busi- 
ness-like from a walk. 

“What have you been saying to Ronald?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “ to 
make him look so grave? I saw him turn the corner, and I thought 
he had seen a ghost, poor lad ; but afterwards \t proved to be onl^ 
10 


146 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


you. You should not be so severe; for he has liked you long, 
though you knew nothing about it; and it must have been very hard 
upon him, poor fellow, to find that he had come home just too late, 
and that you had been snapped up, as a person may say, under his 
very nose.” 

This was so strange an address that it took away Effie’s breath. 
She gave her stepmother a look half stupefied, half horrified. “ I 
don’t know what you mean,” she said. 

“ Well, Effie, my dear, you must just learn; and I don’t think you 
will find it very difficult, if you will give your attention to it. I 
have been wanting to speak to you for two or three days, and your 
father too. You must not trouble about Fred Difom any more. I 
have never been quite satisfied in my own mind that your heart was 
in it, if he had not been so pressing and pushing, and, as we all 
thought, such a good match. But you see it turns out that’s not the 
case, Effie. I got a letter yesterday from my cousin John; and it’s 
all true about Dirom’s firm. They are just going down hill as fast 
as can be, and probably by this time they’ve failed. Though you 
don’t know about business, you know what that means. It is just 
the end of all things; and to hold the young man to his promise in 
such circumstances would be out of the question. We are quite 
agreed upon that, both your father and me. So, my dear Effie, you 
are free. It mightn’t have become you to take steps ; so your father 
and me — we have acted for you ; and now you are free. ” 

Effie stopped short in the road, and stared at the speaker aghast. 
If her heart gave a little leap to hear that word, it was merely an 
instinctive movement, and meant nothing. Her mind was full of 
consternation. She was confounded by the suddenness, by the 
strangeness of the communication. 

Free! What did it mean, and why was it? Free! She repeated 
the word to herself after a while, still looking at her stepmother. It 
was but a single little word. It meant — what? The world seemed 
to go round and round with Effie, the dim November skies, the gray 
pf the wintry afternoon, the red shaft of the setting sun beyond — all 
whirled about her. “Free!” She repeated it as an infant repeats 
a foreign word without knowing what it means. 

“ Now, Effie, said Mrs. Ogilvie, “ don’t let us have any pretences; 
that is all I ask of you. Just face the thing honestly, and don’t let 
ps have any make-believe. If you tell me that you are deep in loye 


EFFIE OGILVIE, 


147 


with Fred Dirom and can’t give him up, I will just not believe you. 
All I will think is that you are a little cutty, and have no heart at 
all. I was very glad you should make such a good match; but I 
could see all along your heart was not in it. And whatever he 
might say, I made no doubt but you would be thankful. So let us 
have none of your little deceptions here.” 

“I don’t think I understand, ” said EflSe, striving to speak. <‘I 
think I must have lost my senses or my hearing, or something. 
What was it you were saying? They say people call things by wrong 
names sometimes, and can’t help it. Perhaps they hear wrong, too. 
What is it that you mean?” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” said Mrs, Ogilvie, with 
some exasperation; “I have just written breaking off your marriage 
—is that plain enough? I’ve done it under your father’s orders. It 
was he that accepted, and I’m thinking it’s he that has a right to re- 
fuse. It’s all broken off — I cannot speak any plainer, Now, dq you 
understand what I say?” 

Effie had grown very pale; she shivered as if yrith cold; her lips 
quivered when she began to speak, 

“And that is,” she said, “because he has failed— because he is 
not a good match now, but a poor man* is that what it is?” 

“ If you like to put it in that broad w^y. Of course he is not in 
a condition to marry, any longer. It is the kindest thing we can do — ’’ 
“ Give me your letter,” said Effie, holding out her hand. There 
was something threatening, something dangerpus, about the girl, 
>vhich made Mrs. Ogilvie scream put, 

“ My letter! I am not in the habit pf showing my letters to any- 
body but your father. And evep if I were disposed to show it I can- 
not, fpr I’ve just been to the ppst and put it in with my own hand. 
And by this time it is stamped and in the bag to go away. So you 
must take my description of it. I will be very happy to tell you all 
I have said.” . » 

“You have just been to the post to put it in!’’ Effie repeated the 
words, her eyes growing larger every moment, her face more ghastly. 
Then she gave a strange cry, like a wounded creature, and turned 
and flew back towards the village, neither pausing nor looking be- 
hind her, without a word more. Mrs. Ogilvie stood for a time, her 
own heart beating a little faster than usual, and a choking sensation 
in her thrpat. 


148 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“ Effle, Effle!” she cried after her; but Effle took no notice. She 
went along through the dim air like a flying shadow, and soon was 
out of sight, taking no time either for breath or thought. Where 
had she gone? wherever she went, what could she do? It was for 
her good; all through it had been for her good. If she mistook at 
first, yet after she must come round. 

Effle had fled in the opposite direction to Allonby. Where was 
she going? what could she do? Mrs. Ogilvie made a rapid glance at 
the possibilities and decided that there was really nothing which the 
girl could do. She drew a long breath to relieve the oppression 
which, in spite of herself, had seized upon her, the sudden panic and 
alarm. 

What could Effle do?— just nothing! She would run and tell her 
Uncle John; but though the minister was a man full of crotchets, he 
was still more or less a man of sense, and he had never been very 
keen on the match. He would speak to her sensibly, and she would 
see it when he said it, though not when Mrs. Ogilvie said it ; and she 
would come home. 

And then Ronald would get another invitation to his dinner. It 
was all as simple as A B C. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Mr. Moubray was in his study, in the gray of the winter’s after- 
noon. It is never a very cheerful moment. The fire was burning 
brightly, the room was warm and pleasant, with plenty of books, 
and many associations; but it was a pensive moment, too dark for 
reading, when there is nothing to do but think. And though a man 
who has begun to grow old, and who is solitary, may be very happy 
thinking, yet it is a pensive pleasure. He was sitting very quietly, 
looking out at the shaft of red gold in the west where the sun had 
disappeared, and watching the light as it stole away, each moment a 
little less, a little less brilliant, till it sank altogether in the gray. 

To eyes “that have kept watch o’er man’s mortality” there is 
always an interest in that' sight; one going out is so like another; 
the slow lessening, the final disappearance, have an interest that 
never fails. And the minister can scarcely be said to have been 
thinking. He was watching, as he had watched at many a death- 
bed, the slow extinction, the going away. “Whether it is a sun or a 
life that is setting, that last ineifable moment of disappearance can- 
not but convey a thrill to the heart. 

This was how he was seated, meditating in the profoundest tran- 
quillity, when, all at once, the door fiew open, and a young figure full 
of agitation, in all the force of life and passion, a creature all alive 
to the very finger-points, to the hem of her skirts, to the crown of her 
wind-blown hair, burst in breathless, an emblem of disturbance, of con- 
flict, in short, of existence in contrast with the calm of contemplation. 

She stood for a moment before him, but only as if under protest, 
pausing perforce for breath. “Uncle John,” she cried, panting, 
“ come, come with me! I want to tell you, I want to ask you— you 
must help me— to stop something. But, oh, I can’t wait to explain; 
come with me, come with me! and I’ll tell you on the way—” 

“ What is it, Effie?” He got up hastily; but though her influence 
was strong, it was not strong enough to prevent him from asking an 
explanation before he obeyed it. 

She caught at his arm in her impatience. “Oh, Uncle John, come 


150 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


— come away! I’ll tell you on the road — oh, come away — there is 
not a moment, not a moment, to lose — ” 

“ Is anybody ill?” he said. She continued to hold his arm, not as 
a means of support, but by way of pushing him on, which she did, 
scarcely leaving him a moment to get his hat. Her impetuosity re- 
minded him so much of many a childish raid made into his house, 
that, notwithstanding his alarm, he smiled. 

“ Oh, no, there is nobody ill; it is much, much worse than that, 
Uncle John. Oh, don’t smile as if you thought I were joking. It’s 
just desperation. There is a letter that Mrs. Ogilvie has written, and 
I must, I must get it back from the post, or I will die. Oh, come! 
come! before it is too late.” 

“Get a letter back from the post?” 

He turned in spite of Effle’s urgency at the manse door. It stood 
high, and the cheerful lights were beginning to shine in the village 
windows below, among which the shop and post-office was conspicu- 
ous with its two bright paraffine lamps. 

“ But that is impossible,” he said. 

“Oh, no,” said the girl. “Oh, Uncle John, come quick, come 
quick! and you will see that we must have it. Mrs. Moffatt will 
give it when she sees you. Not for me, perhaps, but for you. You 
will say that something has been forgotten, that another word has 
to be put in, that— oh. Uncle John, when we are there it will come 
into our heads what to say — ” 

“ Take no thought beforehand what you shall speak,Effie,” said the 
minister, half smiling, half admonishing; “ is it so serious as that?” 

He suffered her to lead him down the slope of the manse garden, 
out upon the road, her light figure foremost, clinging to his arm, yet 
moving him along; he, heavier, with so much of passive resistance 
as his large frame and only half-responsive will gave. 

“Oh, yes,” she cried, “ it is as serious as that. Uncle John, w^as 
not that what our Lord said when his men that he sent out were to 
stand for him and not to forsake him? And to desert your friends 
when they are in trouble, to turn your back upon them when they 
need you, to give them up because they are poor, because they are 
unfortunate, because they have lost everything but you—” 

She was holding his arm so closely, urging him on, that he felt 
the heaving of her heart against his side, the tremor of earnestness 
in her whole frame as she spoke. 


EFI'TE ogilvie. 


151 


“Effie, my little girl, what strait are you in, that you are driven 
to use words like these?” 

Her voice sounded like a sob in her throat, which was parched 
with excitement. 

“ I am in this strait. Uncle John, that he has lost everything, and 
they have written to say I take hack my word. No, no, no,” cried 
Effle, forcing on with feverish haste the larger shadow by her side. 
“ I will never do it — it shall not be. They made me take him when 
he was rich, and now that he is poor I will stand by him till I die.”' 

“My little Effie!” was all the minister said. She still hurried 
him along, but yet he half carried her with an arm round her slender 
figure. What with agitation and the unaccustomed conflict in her 
mind, EfiSe’s slight physical frame was failing her. It was her heart 
and soul that were pushing on. Her brain swam, the village lights^ 
fiuttered in her eyes, her voice had gone altogether, lost in the climb- 
ing sob which was at once breath and utterance. She was uncon- 
scious of everything save her one object, to be in time, to recover the- 
letter, to avert that cowardly blow. 

But when Effie came to herself in the little shop with its close at- 
mosphere, the smell of the paraffine, the dazzling glare of the light,, 
under the astonished gaze of Mrs. Moffatt, the postmistress, who* 
stood at her counter stamping the letters spread out before her, and 
who stopped short, bewildered by the sudden entrance of so much 
passion, of something entirely out of the ordinary, which she felt, 
but could not understand — the girl could bring forth nothing from 
that slender, convulsed throat but a gasp. It was Mr. Moubray 
who spoke. 

“My niece wishes you to give her back a letter — a letter in which 
something must be altered, something added; a letter with the Gils- 
ton stamp.” 

“Eh, Mr. Moubray! but I canna do that, ” the postmistress cried. 

“Why can’t you do it? I am here to keep you free of blame. 
There is no harm in it. Give her back her letter, and she will add 
what she wishes to add.” 

“Is it Miss Effie’s own letter? I’m no sure it’s just right even in 
that point of view. Folk should ken their own minds,” said Mrs. 
Moffatt, shuffling the letters about with her hands, “ before they put 
pen to paper. If I did it for ane, I would have to do it for a’ that 
ask. And where would I be then? I would just never be done — ” 


152 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“Let US hope there are but few that are so important; and my 
niece is not just any one,” said the minister, with a little natural self- 
assertion. “ I will clear you of the. blame if there is any blame.” 

“I am not saying but what Miss Effle — Still the post-ofiSce is 
just like the grave, Mr. Moubray — what’s put in canna be taken out. 
Na, I do not think I can do it, if it was for the queen hersel’.” 

Effie had not stood still while this conversation was going on ; she 
had taken the matter into her own hands, and was turning over the 
letters with her trembling fingers without waiting for any permission. 

“Na, Miss Etfie; na. Miss Effie,” said the postmistress, trying to 
withdraw them from her. But Effie paid no attention. Her ex- 
treme and passionate agitation was such that even official zeal, 
though strengthened by ignorance, could not stand before it. Not- 
withstanding all Mrs. Moffatt’s efforts, the girl examined everything 
with a swift desperation and keenness which contrasted strangely 
with her incapacity to see or know anything besides. It was not 
till she had turned over every one that she fiung up her hands with 
a cry of dismay, and fell back upon the shoulder of the minister, 
who had held her all the time with his arm. 

“ Oh,TJncle John! oh,Uncle John!”she cried, with a voice of despair. 

“Perhaps it has not been sent, Effie. It was only a threat per- 
haps. It might be said to see how you felt. Rest a little, and then 
we will think what to do — ” 

“I will have to go,” she said, struggling from him, getting out to 
the door of the shop. “ Oh, I cannot breathe ! Uncle John, when 
■does the train go?” 

“My dear child!” 

“ Uncle John, what time does the train go? No, I will not listen,” 
^said the girl. The fresh air revived her, and she hurried along a lit- 
tle way ; but soon her limbs failed her, and she dropped down, trem- 
bling, upon the stone seat in front of one of the cottages. There she sat 
for a few minutes, taking off her hat, putting back her hair from her 
forehead instinctively, as if that would relieve the pressure on her heart. 

She was still for a moment, and then burst forth again: “ I must 
go. Oh, you are not to say a word. Do you know what it is to 
love some one, Uncle John? Yes, you know. It is only a few who 
can tell what that is. Well,” she said, the sob in her throat inter- 
rupting her, making her voice sound like the voice of a child, 

that is how he thinks of me; you will think it strange. He is not 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


153 


like a serious man, you will say, to feel so; but be does. Not me! 
oh, not me!” said Effie, contending with the sob; “I am not like 
that. But he does. I am not so stupid, nor so insensible, but I know 
it when I see it. Uncle John.” 

“Yes, EtSe, I never doubted it; he loves you dearly, poor fellow. 
My dear little girl, there is time enough to set all right — ” 

‘ ‘ To set it right ! If he hears just at the moment of his trouble 
that I — that I — What is the word when a woman is a traitor? Is 
there such a thing as that a girl should be a traitor to one that puts 
his trust in her? I never pretended to be like that. Uncle John. 
He knew that it was different with me. But true — Oh, I can 
be true. More, more! I can't he false. Do you hear me? You 
brought me up, how could I? I can’t be false; it will kill me. I 
would rather die — ” 

“Effie! EflQe! No one would have you to be false. Compose 
yourself, my dear. Come home with me and I will speak to them, 

* and everything will come right. There cannot be any harm* done 
yet. Effie, my poor little girl, come home.” 

Effie did not move, except to put back, as before, her hair from 
her forehead. 

“I know,” she said, “that there is no hurry, that the train does 
not go till night. I will tell you everything as if you were my 
mother. Uncle John. You are the nearest to her. I was silly — I 
never thought — but I was proud too. Girls are made like that; and 
just to be praised and made much of pleases us; and to have some- 
body that thinks there is no one in the world like you; for that,” 
she said, with a little pause, and a voice full of awe, “is what he 
thinks of me. It is very strange, but it is true. And if I were to 
let him think for a moment— oh, for one moment!— that the girl he 
thought so much of would cast him off because he was poor!—” 

Effie sprang up from her seat in the excitement of this thought. 
She turned upon her uncle, with her face shining, her head held high. 

“Do you think I could let him think that for an hour? for a day? 
Oh, no! no! Yes, I will go home to get my cloak and a bonnet, for 
you cannot go to London just in a little hat like mine; but don’t say 
to me. Uncle John, that I must not do it, for I will.” 

She took his arm again in the force of this resolution. Then she 
added, in the tone of one who is conceding a great favor, “ But you 
may come with me if you like.” 


154 


EFFIE OGILViE. 


Between the real feeling which her words had roused in him and 
the humor of this permission, Mr Mouhray scarcely knew how to re- 
ply. He said: “I would not advise you to go, EfSe. It will be 
better for me to go in your place if any one must go; but is that 
necessary? Let us go quietly home in the meantime. You owe 
something to your father, my dear; you must not take a step like 
this without his knowledge at least.” 

“ If you are going to betray me to Mrs. Ogilvie, Uncle John — ” 

“My little Effle, there is no question of betrayal. There is no 
need for running away, for acting as if you were oppressed at home. 
You have never been oppressed at home, my dear. If Mrs. Ogilvie 
has written to Mr. Dirom, at least she was honest and told you. And 
you must be honest. It must all be spoken of on the true ground, 
which is that you can do only what is right, EflSe.” 

“ Uncle John,” cried Effle, “ if to give up Fred is right, then I will 
not do it — whatever you say, I will not do it. He may never want 
me in my life again, but he wants me now. Abandon him because 
he is in need of me! Oh! could you believe it of Effle? And if you 
say it is wrong,.! do not care, I will do it. I will not desert him 
when he is poor, not for all the — not for anybody in the world.” 

“Is that Effle that is speaking so loud? is that you, John?” 

This was the voice of Mr. Ogilvie himself, which suddenly rose 
out of the dim evening air close by. They had gone along in their 
excitement scarce knowing where they went, or how near they were 
to the house, and now, close to the dark shrubberies, encountered 
suddenly Effle’s father, who, somewhat against his owm will, had 
come out to look for her. 

His wife had been anxious, which he thought absurd, and he had 
been driven out rather by impatience of her continual inquiries — “ I 
wonder where that girl has gone. I wonder what she is doing. 
Dear me, Robert, if you will not go out and look after her, I will 
just have to do it myself than from any other motive. Effle’s dec- 
laration had been made accordingly to other ears than those she in- 
tended ; and her father’s slow but hot temper was roused. 

“I would like to know,” he said, “for what reason it is that you 
are out so late as this, and going hectoring about the roads like a 
play-acting woman? John, you might have more sense than to en- 
courage her in such behavior. Go home to your mother this mo- 
ment, Effle, and let me hear no more such language out of your head. 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 155 

I will not ask what it’s about. I have nothing to say to women’s 
quarrels. Go home, I tell you, to your mother.” 

Effie had caught with both her hands her uncle’s arm. 

“ Oh, I wish that I could. Oh, if I only could,” she cried, “that 
would make all clear.” 

“Ogilvie, she is in a state of great excitement — I hope you will 
set her mind at rest. I tell her she shall be forced to nothing. You 
are not the man, though you may be a little careless, to permit any 
tyranny over your child.” 

“Me, careless! You are civil,” said the father. “Just you recol- 
lect, J ohn Moubray, that I will have no interference — if you were 
the minister ten times over, and her uncle to the boot. I am well 
able to look after my own family and concerns. Effie, go home.” 

Effie said nothing; but she stood still clinging to her uncle’s arm. 
She would not advance though he tried to draw her towards the 
gate, nor would she make any reply; she wound her arms about his, 
and held him fast. She had carried him along with the force of her 
young passion; but he could not move her. Her brain was whirl- 
ing, her whole being in the wildest commotion. Her intelligence 
had partially given way, but her power of resistance was strong. 

“Effie,” he said, softly, “come home. My dear, you must let 
your father see what is in your mind. How is he to learn if you 
will not tell him? Effie, for my part, I will do whatever you please,” 
he said, in a low tone, in her ear. “I promise to go to him if you 
wish it — only obey your father and come home.” 

“Go home this moment to your mother,” Mr. Ogilvie repeated. 
“Is this a time to be wandering about the world? She may just 
keep her mind to herself, John Moubray. I’ll have nothing to say 
to women’s quarrels, and if you are a wise man you will do the same. 
Effie, go home.” 

Effie paused a moment between the two, one of whom repulsed 
her, while the other did no more than soothe and still her excite- 
ment as best he could. She was not capable of being soothed. The 
fire and passion in her veins required an outlet. She was so young, 
unaccustomed to emotion. She would not yield to do nothing, that 
hard part which women in so many circumstances have to play. 

Suddenly she loosed her arms from that of the minister, and with- 
out a word, in an instant, before anything could be said, darted away 
from them into the gathering night. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Wb were just bringing her back. No doubt she has darted in 
at the side door — she was always a hasty creature — and got into her 
own room. That’s where ye will find her. I cannot tell you what 
has come over the monkey. She is just out of what little wits she 
ever had.” 

“ I can tell very well what has come over her,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
“ She is just wild that I have interfered, which it was my clear duty 
to do. If she had been heart and soul in the matter it would have 
been different — but she was never that. Those old cats at Rosebank, 
they thought there was nobody saw it but themselves; but I saw it 
well enough. ” 

“In that case,” said Mr. Moubray, “perhaps it would have been 
better to interfere sooner. I wish you would send some one to see 
if Effie is really there.” 

“ Why should I have interfered sooner? If everything had gone 
well it was such a match as Effle had no chance of making; but 
when it turned out that it was a mistake, and the other there break- 
ing his heart, that had always been more suitable, and her with no 
heart in it — ” Mrs. Ogilvie paused for a moment in the satisfaction 
of triumphant self- vindication. “But if you’re just sentimental 
and childish and come in my way, you bind her to a bankrupt that 
she does not care for, because of what you call honor; honor is all 
very well,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “for men, but whoever supposes that 
a bit little creature of a girl — ” 

“ Will ye go and see if Effie is in her room?” said her husband, 
impatiently. 

“Ye may just ring the bell, Robert, and send one of the maids to 
see; what would I do with her? If I said anything it would only 
make her worse. I am not one of the people that shilly-shally. I 
just act and am done with it. I’m very glad I put in my letter my- 
self that it might go in the first bag. But if you will take my ad- 
vice you will just let her be; at this moment she could not bear the 


EFPIE OGILVIE. 


157 


sight of me, and I’m not blaming her. I’ve taken it in my own 
hands, at my own risk, and if she’s angry I’m not surprised. Let 
her be. She will come to herself by and by, and at the bottom of 
her heart she will be very well pleased, and then I will ask Kon- 
ald Sutherland to his dinner, and then — ” 

“ I wish,” said Mr. Moubray, “ you would ease my mind at least 
by making sure that Effle has really come in. I have a misgiving, 
which is perhaps foolish ; I will go myself if you will let me.” 

“ No need for that,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, ringing the bell. “ George, 
you will send Margaret to tell Miss Effie— but what am I to tell her? 
that is just the question. She will not want anything to say to me, 
and she will perhaps think — You will say just that her uncle 
wants her, that will be the best thing to say.” 

There was a pause while George departed on his errand; not that 
Mrs. Ogilvie had nothing to say or was affected by the anxiety of the 
others. It had indeed been a relief to her when her husband in- 
formed her that Effle, no doubt, had come in and was in her own 
room. The stepmother, who had been a little uneasy before, took 
this for granted with a sigh of relief, and felt that a certain little 
danger which she had not defined to herself was over. 

And now that the alarm was past, and that she had put forth her 
defence, it seemed better not to dwell upon this subject. Better to 
let it drop, she said to herself, better to let Effle think that it was 
over and nothing more to be made of it. Mrs, Ogilvie was a wom- 
an without temper and never ill-natured. She was very willing to 
let it drop. That she should receive her stepdaughter as if nothing 
had happened was clearly the right way. Therefore, though she had 
a thousand things now to say, and could have justified her proceed- 
ings in volumes, she decided not to do so ; for she could also be self- 
denying when it was expedient so to be. 

There was therefore a pause, Mr. Moubray sat with his eyes fixed 
on the door and a great disquietude in his mind. He was asking 
himself what, if she appeared, he could do. Must he promise her 
her lover, as he would promise a child a plaything? must he ignore 
altogether the not unreasonable reasons which Mrs. Ogilvie had pro- 
duced in justification of her conduct? They were abhorrent to his 
mind, as well as to that of Effle, yet from her point of view they were 
not unreasonable. But if Effle was not there? Mr. Ogilvie said 
nothing at all, but he walked from one end of the room to another 


158 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


working his shaggy eyebrows. It was evident he was not so tran- 
quil in his mind as he had pretended to be. 

Presently Margaret, the housemaid, appeared, after a modest tap 
at the door. “ Miss Effie is not in her room, mem,” she said. 

“Not in her room? are you quite sure? Perhaps she is in the 
library waiting for her papa; perhaps she is in the nursery with 
Kory. She may even have gone into the kitchen, to speak a word 
to old Mary, or to Pirie’s cottage to see if there are any flowers. 
You will find her somewhere if you look. Quick, quick, and tell 
her the minister wants her. You are sure, both of you gentlemen, 
that you saw her come in at the gate?” 

“No doubt she came in,” said Mr. Ogilvie, with irritation; 
“where else would she go at this time of night?” 

“I am not sure at all,” said Mr. Moubray, rising up; “I never 
thought so; and here I have been sitting losing time. I will go 
myself to Pirie’s cottage, and after that — ” 

“ There is nothing to be frightened about,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, rising 
too; “ if she’s not at Pirie’s she will be at Kosebank, or else she will 
be in one of the cottages, or else— bless me, there are twenty places 
she may be, and nothing to make a panic about.” 

The minister went out in the middle of this speech, waving his 
hand to her as he went away, and she followed him to the door, call- 
ing out her consolations across the passage. She met her husband, 
who was about to follow, as she turned back, and caught his arm 
with her hands. 

“Robert, you’re not in this daft excitement too? Where in the 
world would she go to, as you say? She’ll just have run some- 
where in her pet, not to see me. There can be nothing to be terri- 
fied about.” 

“ You have a -way,” cried the husband, “ of talking, talking, that 
a person would fly to the uttermost parts of the airth to get free o’ 
ye. Let me go! Eflie’s j^oung and silly. She may run we know 
not where, pr she may catch a cold to kill her, which is the least of 
it. Let me go.” 

“ Sit down in your own chair by your own fireside, and listen to 
me,” said the wife. “ Why should you go on a fool’s errand? one’s 
enough for that. Did Effie ever give you any real vexation all her 
life? No, truly, and why should she begin now? She will be tak- 
ing a walk, or she will be complaining of me to the Miss Dempsters, 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


159 


or something of that innocent kind. Just you let her he. What 
did she ever do to give you a had opinion of her? No, no, she’s 
come out of a good stock and she’ll come to no harm. ” 

“ There is something in that,” Mr. Ogilvie said. He was not ill- 
disposed to sit down in his own chair hy his own fireside and take 
his ease, and accept the assurance that Effie would come to no harm. 

But when she had thus quieted her husband and disposed of him, 
Mrs. Ogilvie herself stole out in the dark, first to the house door, 
then through the ghostly shruhheries to the gate, to see*if there was 
any trace visible of the fugitive. She was not so tranquil as she pre- 
tended to be* Effle’s look of consternation and horror was still in 
her eyes, and she had a sense of guilt which she could not shake off. 
But yet there *'ere so many good reasons for doing what she had 
done, so many excuses, nay, laudable motives, things that called for 
immediate action. 

“ To marry a man you don’t care about, when there is no advan- 
tage in it, what a dreadful thing to do. IIow could I look on and 
let that little thing make such a sacrifice? and when any person 
with the least perception could see her heart was not in it. And 
Ronald, him that she just had a natural bias to, that was just the 
most suitable match, not a great parti like what we all thought 
young Dirom, but well enough, and her own kind of person.” 

It was thus she justified herself, and from her own point of view 
the justification was complete. But yet she was not a happy wom- 
an as she stood within the shadow of the big laurels, and looked out 
upon the road, hoping every moment to see a slight shadow flit 
across the road, and Effie steal in at the open gate. What could 
the little thing do? As for running away, that was out of the ques- 
tion; and she was so young, knowing nothing. What could she do? 
It was not possible she should come to any harm. 

Mr. Moubray was more anxious still, for it seemed to him that he 
knew very well what she would do. He walked about all the neigh- 
boring roads, and peeped into the cottages, and frightened the Miss 
Dempsters by going up to their door, with heavy feet crushing the 
gravel at that unaccustomed hour, for no reason but just to ask how 
the old lady was. 

“ I must be worse than I think or the minister would never have 
come all this way once-errand, to inquire about me/’ Miss Dempster 


160 


EFPIE OGILVIE. 


“ He would just see the light, and he would mind that he had 
made no inquiries for three days,” said Miss Beenie; but she too was 
uncomfortable, and felt that there was more in this nocturnal visita- 
tion than met the eye. 

It did not surprise Mr. Moubray that in all his searches he could 
find no trace of his little girl. He thought he knew where he would 
find her — on the platform of the little railway station, ready to get 
into the train for London. And in the meantime his mind was full 
of thoughts how to serve her best. He was not like the majority of 
people, who are ready enough to serve others according to what they 
themselves think best. Uncle John, on the contrary, studied ten- 
derly how he could help Effie in the way she wished. 

He paused at the post-office, and sent off a telegram to Fred Dirom, 
expressed as follows: “ You will receive to-morrow morning a letter 
from Gilston. E. wishes you to know that it does not express her 
feeling, that she stands fast whatever may happen.” 

When he had sent this he felt a certain tranquillizing influence, as 
if he had propitiated fate, and said to himself that when she heard 
what he had done, she might, perhaps, be persuaded to come back. 
Then the minister went home, put a few things into his old travel- 
ling-bag, and told his housekeeper that he was going to meet a 
friend at the train, and that perhaps he might not return that night, 
or for two or three nights. When he had done this, he made his 
evening prayer, in which you may be sure his little Effie occupied 
the first place, and then set off the long half-hour’s walk to the 
station. 

By this time it was late, and the train was due; but neither on 
the platform, nor in the office, nor among those who stood on the 
alert to jump into the train, could he find her. He was at last con- 
strained to believe that she was not there. Had she gone farther 
to escape pursuit, to the next station, where there would be nobody 
to stop her? He upbraided himself deeply for letting the train go 
without him, after he had watched it plunging away in the dark- 
ness, into the echoes of the night. It seemed to thunder along 
through the great silence of the country, waking a hundred re- 
verberations as he stood there with his bag in hand, aghast, not 
knowing what to do. There had been time enough for that poor 
little pilgrim to push her way to the next stopping-place, where she 
could get in upobserved 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


161 


Was this what she had done? He felt as if he had abandoned 
his little girl, deserted her, left her to take her first step in life un- 
protected, as he went back. And then, as he neared the village, a 
flicker of hope returned that she might, when left to herself, have 
come to a more reasonable conclusion and gone home. He went 
back to Gilston, walking very softly, that his step might not disturb 
them, if the family were all composed to rest. And for a moment 
his heart gave a bound of relief when he saw something moving 
among the laurels within the gate. 

But it was only Mrs. Ogilvie, who stole out into the open, with 
a suppressed cry — “Have you not found her?” “Has she come 
home?” he asked, in the same breath; then, in the mutual pang of 
disappointment, they stood for a moment and looked at each other, 
asking no more. 

“I have got Robert to go to his bed,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “ God 
forgive me, I just deceived him, saying she was at the manse with 
you — which was what I hoped — for what would have been the 
use of him wandering about, exposing himself and getting more 
rheumatism, when there was you and me to do all we could? And, 
oh! what shall we do, or where can I send now? I am just at my 
wits’ end. She would not do any harm to herself — oh, never! I 
cannot think it; and, besides, what would be the use? for she al- 
ways had it in her power to write to him, and say it was only me.” 

Then the minister explained what he had anticipated, and how he 
had proved mistaken. “The only thing is, she might haye gone on 
to Lamphray, thinking it would be quieter, and taken the train 
there.” ^ ■ 

“Lord' bless US,” said 'Mrs. Ogilvie. “ If she has d6ne that we can 
hear nothing :till-^ there is no saying when we may hear.” 

And thoilgh they were on different sides, and, so to speak, hostile 
forces, these two people stood together for a moment with but one 
thought, listening to every little echo, and every rustle, and the 
cracking of .the twigs, and the sound of the burn, all the soft, un- 
reckoned noises of a silent night, but Effle’s step or breath was not 
among them all. 

11 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Effie had darted away from the side of her father and uncle in 
one of those acch of impatience which are common to the young 
and inexperienced. She had no training in that science of endurance 
which is one of the chief bulwarks of life. Everything had become 
intolerable to her. She “could not bear it,” words which are so 
often said, but which in most cases mean little more than the un- 
availing human cry against the hardships to which we have all to 
submit, and which most of us learn must be borne after all, what- 
ever may be the struggle. By times the young, the unprepared, the 
undisciplined fly out and will not submit, to the confusion of their 
own existence flrst, and that of all others involved. 

Effle meant little more than this uncontrollable expression of im- 
patience and sense of the intolerableness of the circumstances 
when she loosed her arm from that of Uncle John, and fled — she 
knew not where. She was not far off, standing trembling and ex- 
cited among the shadows, while they called her and searched for 
her along the different paths; and when they went hastily into the 
house 01^ the supposition that she had found her way there, her 
heart for a moment failed her, and an inclination to realize their 
thoughts, to escape no farther than to the seclusion and safety of 
her own room, crossed her mind like one of the flying clouds that 
were traversing the sky. But not only her excitement and rebellion 
against the treason which she was being compelled to, but even her 
pride was now in arms, preventing any return. 

She stood among the trees, among the evening damps, for some 
time after the gentlemen had disappeared, thought after thought 
coursing through her brain. Her determination was unchanged to 
go south by the night train, though she had no clear idea what was 
next to be done when she should reach London, that great, fabulous 
place where she had never been, and of which she had not the faint- 
est understanding. She would seek out Fred, tell him that she 
would stand by him whatever his trouble might be— that nothing 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


163 


should detach her from his side — that if he was poor that was all 
the more reason. 

So far as this went EfiSe knew what to say, her heart was full of 
eloquence and fervor. The intermediate steps were difficult, but 
that was easy. She had been shy with him and reticent, receiving 
what he gave, listening to what he said, of herself giving Jittle. But 
now a new impulse possessed her. She would throw herself heart 
and soul into his fortunes. She would help him now that he 
needed her. She would be true ; ah ! more than that — as she had said, 
she could not be false, it was an impossibility. Now that he was 
in need she was all his to work or watch, to console or to cheer, as 
might be most needful — his by the securest, most urgent of bonds, 
by right of his necessities. 

The enthusiasm which she had never felt for Fred came now at 
the thought of his poverty and loss. . She could smile, in the force of 
her resolution, at the folly of the woman who thought this would 
break the tie between them ; break it ! when it made it like steel. 

This fire in her heart kept Effie warm, and glowed about her with 
a semblance of passion ; but first there was a difficult moment which 
she did not know how to pass. Had the train gone at once all would 
have been easy; but it would not go yet for hours, and she could 
not pass the time standing on the damp grass, her feet getting wet, 
her damp skirts clinging about her, the wintry dews dropping upon 
her, under those trees. She began to think and ask herself where 
she would go to wait and get a little warm before it should be time 
for the train. 

To Rosebank? but they were on the other side she reflected, with 
a vague pang and misty passing realization of all that the other side 
meant. She had been on the other side herself, against her will, 
till to-day; but not now, oh, not now! She felt the pang, like a 
cutting asunder, a tearing away; but would not dwell upon it, felt 
it only in passing. No, she would not go into the atmosphere of 
the other side. 

And how could she go to the manse where Uncle John would beg 
and pray to go instead of her, which was so very di^erent; for Effie 
required not only to demonstrate her strong faithfulness, but to 
keep it up, to keep it in the state of passion. 

Then there suddenly came upon her a gleam of illumination. 
Yes! that was the only place to go. To whom but to those who 


164 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


would suffer with him, who would have need also of strengthening 
and encouragement, who had such a change before them, and so 
much occasion for the support of their friends, could EfSe betake 
herself? It did not occur to her that Doris and Phyllis, under the 
influence of depression and loss, were almost inconsolable, and that 
to cheer them by the sj^mpathy and backing-up of a little girl like 
herself was something which the imagination failed to grasp. Not 
that thought, but the difficulties of the way chilled her a little. The 
dark, dark road over the brae which reached the waterside close to 
the churchyard, the little path by the river, the wide, silent, solitary 
park — all this made her shiver a little. 

But she said to herself, with a forlorn rallying of her forces, that 
such trifles mattered nothing, that she was beyond thinking of any- 
thing so unimportant, that there was the place for her, that she must 
go to his sisters to give them confidence, to comfort them on Fred’s 
account, to say, “I am going to him, to stand by him.” They who 
knew him so well would know that when she said that, all was said, 
and Fred’s strength and endurance secured. 

This decision was made very rapidly, the mental processes being 
so much quicker than anything that is physical, so that the sound of 
the door closing upon Mr. Ogilvie and Mr. Moubray had scarcely 
died out of the echoes before she set forth. She walked very quickly 
and firmly so long as it was the high-road, where there were cottage 
lights shining here and there and an occasional passer-by, though 
she shrank from sight or speech of any; but w’hen she came to the 
darker byway over the hill, it was all Effle’s courage could do to 
keep her going. 

There was light in the sky, the soft glimmer of stars, but it did 
not seem to get so far as the head of the brae, and still less down the 
other side, where it descended towards the water. Down below, at 
the bottom of the ravine, the water itself, indeed, was doubly clear; 
the sky reflected in it with a wildness and pale fight which was of 
itself enough to frighten any one; but the descending path seemed 
to change and waver in the great darkness of the world around, so 
that sometime it appeared to sink under Effle’s feet, receding and 
falling into an abyss immeasurable, which reacted upon the gloom, 
and made the descent seem as steep as a precipice. 

Her little figure, not distinguishable in the darkness, stumbling 
downwards, not seeing the stones and bushes that came in her way, 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


165 


seemed a hundred times as if about to fall down, down, into the 
depths, into that dark clearness, the cold gulf of the stream. Some- 
times she slid downward a little, and then thought for a dizzy mo- 
ment that all was over — sometimes stumbled and felt that she was 
going down headlong, always ’feeling herself alone, entirely alone, 
between the cldar stars overhead and the line of keen light below. 

Then there came the passage of the churchyard, which was full 
of solemnity. Effie saw the little huddled mass of the old chapel 
against the dim opening out of the valley in which the house of 
Allouby lay, and it looked to her like a crouching figure^ watching 
among the dead; like, perhaps, some shadow of Adam Fleming or 
his murdered Helen in the place wiiere she fell. 

As soon as she got on level ground the girl flew along, all throb- 
bing and trembling with terror. Beyond lay the vague stretches of 
the park, and the house rising in the midst of the spectral river 
mists, soft and white, that filled it — the lights in the windows veiled 
and indistinct, the whole silent, like a house of shadows. Her heart 
failed although' she went on, half flying, towards it, as to a refuge. 
Effie by this time had almost forgotten Fred. She had forgotten 
everything except the terrors of this unusual expedition, and the 
silence and solitude and all the weird influences that seemed to be 
about her. She felt as if she were outside of the world altogether, a 
little ghost wandering over the surface of the earth. There seemed 
to be no voice in her to call out for help against the darkness and 
the savage silence, through which she could not even hear the trickle 
of the stream ; nothing but her own steps flying, and her own poor 
little bosom panting, throbbing, against the unresponsive background 
of the night. 

Her footsteps too became inaudible as she got upon the turf and 
approached close to Allonby. All was silent there also; there seemed 
no sound at all as if any one was stirring, but only a dead house with 
faint, spectral lights in the windows. 

She stopped and took breath and came to herself, a little calmed 
by the neighborhood of a human habitation in which there must be 
some inhabitants though she could not hear them. She came to her- 
self more or less, and the pulsations of terror in her ears beat less 
overwhelmingly, so that* she began to be able to think again, and ask 
herself what she should do. To go to the great door, to wake all the 
echoes by knocking, to be met by an unconcerned servant and ushered 


166 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


in as if she were an ordinary visitor, all agitated and worn by emo* 
tion as she was, was impossible. 

It seemed more natural, everything being out of rule, to steal 
round the house till she found the window of the room in which the 
girls were sitting, and make her little summons to them without 
those impossible formalities, and so be admitted to their sole com- 
pany. The lawn came close up under the windows, and Effie crept 
round one side of the house, finding all dark, with a feeling of dis- 
couragement as if she had been repulsed. One large an(J broad win- 
dow a little in advance showed, however, against the darkness, and 
though she knew this could not be a sitting-room, she stole on un- 
conscious of any curiosity or possibility of indiscretion, it being a 
matter of mere existence to find some one. 

The curtains were drawn half over the window, yet not so much 
but that she could see in. And the sight that met the girl’s aston- 
ished eyes was one so strange and incomprehensible that it affected 
her like a vision. 

Mrs. Dirom was sitting in the middle of the room in a deep easy- 
chair, with her head in her hands, to all appearance weeping bitterly, 
while a man, muffled in a rough, loose coat, stood with his back to 
her, opening what seemed the door of a little cupboard in the wall 
close to the bed. Effle gazed terror stricken, wondering if it were a 
robber — who was it? Mrs. Dirom was making no resistance; she 
was only crying, her faee buried in her hands. 

The little door yielded at last, and showed to Effle dimly the 
shelves of a safe crowded with, dark, indistinct objects. Then Mrs. 
Dirom rose up, and taking some of these indistinct objects in her 
hands, suddenly made visible a blaze of diamonds which she seemed 
to press upon the man. 

He turned round to the light, as Effie, stooping, half kneeling on 
the wet grass, gazed in, in a kind of trance, scarcely knowing what 
she did. The coat in which he was muffled was large and rough, 
and a big muffler hung loosely round his neck, but to the great 
astonishment of the young spectator the face was that of Mr. Dirom 
himself. He seemed to laugh and put away the case in which the 
diamonds were blazing. 

Then out of the farther depths of the safe he brought a bundle of 
papers, over which he nodded his head a great many times as if with 
satisfaction. At this moment something seemed to disturb them, 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


167 


some sound apparently in the house, for they both looked towards 
the door, and then the lamp was suddenly extinguished and Effle 
saw no more. It was a curious scene — the diamonds lighting up the 
dim room, the woman in tears offering them to the man, he.refusing, 
holding his little bundle of papers, the unusual dress, the air of ex- 
citement and emotion; and then sudden darkness, nothing visible 
any more; yet the certainty that these two people were there, with- 
out light, concealing themselves and their proceedings, whatever 
these might be. 

Etfie had looked on scarcely knowing why, unaware that she was 
prying into other people’s concerns, suddenly attracted by the gleam 
of light, by the comfort of feeling some one near. The putting-out 
of the lamp threw her back into her panic, yet changed it. She 
shrank aw9,y from the window with a sudden fear of the house in 
which something strange, she knew not what, was going on. Her 
mind was too much confused to ask what it was, to make any repre- 
sentation to herself of what she had seen; but the thought of these 
two people in the dark seemed to give a climax to all the nameless 
terrors of the night. 

She went on by the side of the house, not knowing what to do, 
afraid now to ask admission, doubly afraid to turn back again, lost 
in confusion of mind and fatigue of body, which dimmed and drove 
out her original distress. 

Now, however, she had come to the back regions in which the 
servants were stirring, and before she was aware a loud “Who’s 
that?” and the flash of a lantern upon her, brought her back to 
herself. It was the grooms coming back from the stable who thus 
interrupted her forlorn round. 

" ‘ Who’s that ?— it’s a woman— it’s a lassie ! Lord bless us, it’s Miss 
Ogilvie!” they cried. 

Effle had sufflcient consciousness to meet their curious inspection 
with affected composure. 

“ I want to see Miss Dirom,” she said. “ I lost my way in the 
dark; I couldn’t And the door. Can I see Miss Dirom?” 

Her skirts were damp and clinging about her, her hair limp with 
the dews of the night, her whole appearance wild and strange; but 
the eyes of the grooms were not enlightened. They made no com- 
ments; one of them led her to the proper entrance, another sent the 
proper offlcial to open to her, and presently she stood dazzled and 


168 


EFFTE OGILVIE. 


tremulous, in the room full of softened firelight and taperlight, warm 
and soft and luxurious, as if there were no trouble or mystery in the 
world, where Doris and Phyllis sat in their usual animated idleness 
talking to each other. One of them was lying at full length on a 
sofa, her arms about her head, her white cashmere dress falling in 
the much-esteemed folds which that pretty material takes by nature; 
the other was seated on a stool before the fire, her elbows on her 
knees. The sound of their voices discoursing largely, softly, just as 
usual, was what Effie heard as the servant opened the door. 

“Miss Ogilvie, did you say? — Eflfie!” They both gazed at her 
with different manifestations of dramatic surprise — without, for the 
moment, any other movement. Her appearance was astonishing at 
this hour, but nothing else seemed to disturb the placidity of these 
young women. Finally Miss Phyllis rose from her stool in front 
of the fire. 

“ She has eyes like stars, and her hair is all twinkling with dew — 
quite a romantic figure. What a pity there is nobody to see it but 
Doris and me ! You don’t mean to say you have come walking all 
this way?” 

“Oh! what does it matter how I came?” cried Effie. “I came — 
because I could not stay away. There was nobody else that was so 
near me. I came to tell you — I am going to Fred.” 

“To Fred!” they both cried, Phyllis with a little scream of sur- 
prise, Doris in a sort of inquiring tone, raising herself half from her 
sofa. They both stared at her strangely. They had no more notion 
why she should be going to Fred than the servant who had opened 
the door for her; most likely much less, for there were many things 
unknown to the young ladies which the servants knew. 

“ Fred will be very much flattered,” said Doris. “ But why are 
you going? does he know? what is it for? is it for shopping? Have 
you made Up your mind, all at once, that you want another dress? 
I should say two or three, but that is neither here nor there. And 
what has put it so suddenly into your head? And where are you 
goiug to stay? Are you sure your friends are in London at this time 
of the year — ?” 

“ Oh!” cried Effie, restored out of her exhaustion and confusion in 
a moment by this extraordinary speech, “is that all you think? a 
dress, and shopping to do ! when Fred is alone, when he is in trouble, 
when even your father has deserted him— and his money gone, and 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 


169 


his heart sore! Oh, is that all you know? I am going to tell him 
that I will never forsake him whatever others may do — that I am 
come to stand by him — that I am come — ” 

She stopped, not because she had no more to say, but because she 
lost the control of her voice and could do nothing but sob — drawing 
her breath convulsively, like a child that has wept its passion out, 
yet has not recovered the use of its throat. 

Phyllis and Doris looked at her with eyes more and more aston- 
ished and critical. They spoke to each other, not to her. “ She 
means it, do you know, Dor!” 

“It is like a melodrama, Phyll — Good -ness, look at her! If 
we should ever go on the stage — !” 

EflBe heard the murmur of their voices, and turned her eyes from 
one to another; but her head was light with the fumes of her own pas- 
sion, which had suddenly flared so high ; and though she looked from 
one to another, instinctively, she did not understand what they said. 

“And did you come to tell us this, so late, and all alone, you poor 
little Effie? And how did you manage to get away? and how are 
you to get back?” 

“ Of course,” said Doris, “ we must send her back. Don’t ask so 
many silly questions, Phyll.” 

“I am not going back,” said Effie. “They would stop me if 
they knew. Oh, will you send me to the train? for it is very dark 
and very wet, and I’m frightened, it’s all so lonely. I never meant 
to trouble anybody. But your father will be going too, and I would 
just sit in a corner and never say a word. Oh, will you ask him to 
let me go with him to the train?” 

“What does she mean about papa? The train! there is no one 
going to the train. Do you mean to say that you — to-night — oh, 
you know you must be dreaming; nothing like this is possible, Effie! 
You must go home, child, and go to bed — ” 

“To bed! and let him think that I’ve forsaken him— to let him 
get up to-morrow morning and hear that Effie, because he is poor, 
has gone back from her word? Oh! no, no, I cannot do it. If you 
will not send me, I will just walk as I meant to do! I was fright- 
ened,” said Effle, with her piteous little sob. “And then if your 
father is going — But it does not matter after all, I will just walk as 
I meant to do; and if you don’t care, that was my mistake in coming 
— I will just say good-night.” 


170 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


She turned away with a childlike dignity, yet with a tremor she 
could not subdue. She was not afraid to go out into the world, to 
carry the sacrifice of her young existence to the man who loved her, 
whom she would not forsake in his trouble ; but she was frightened 
for the dark road, the loneliness of the night — she was fright- 
ened, but yet she was ready to do it. She turned away with a wave 
of her hand. 

Both of the girls, however, were roused by this time. Doris rose 
from her sofa, and Phyllis seized Effle, half coaxingly, half violent- 
ly, b}’’ the arm. 

“Effle! goodness,” she cried, “just think for a moment. You 
mustn’t do this — what could Fred do with you ? He would be fright- 
ened out of his senses. You would put him in such a predicament. 
What would he do?” 

“And where would you go?” said Doris. “To his lodgings? 
Only fancy, a young man’s lodgings in Half Moon Street, just the 
sort of place where they think the worst of everything. He would 
be at his wits’ end. He would think it very sweet of you, but just 
awfully silly. For what would he do with you? He could not 
keep you there. It would put him in the most awkward position. 
For Fred’s sake, if you really care for him, don’t, for Heaven’s sake, 
do anything so extraordinary. Here is mother, she will tell you.” 

“Mamma,” they both cried, as Mrs. Dirom came into the room, 
“Effle has got the strangest idea. I think she must be a little 
wrong in her head. She says she is going to Fred — ” 

“ To Fred!” the mother exclaimed, with a voice full of agitation. 
“ Has anything happened to Fred — ” 

“ Don’t make yourself anxious, it is only her nonsense. She has 
heard about the firm, I suppose. She thinks he is ruined, and all 
that, and she wants to go to him to stand by him— to show him that 
she will not forsake him. It’s pretty, but it’s preposterous,” said 
Doris, giving Effle a sudden kiss. “ Tell her she will only make 
Fred uncomfortable. She will not listen to us.” 

Mrs. Dirom had a look of heat and excitement which her children 
never remembered to have seen in her before, but which Effle un- 
derstood, who knew. Her eyes were red, her color high, a fiush 
across her cheek-bones; her lips trembled with a sort of nervous im- 
patience. 

“ Oh,” she cried, “ haven’t I enough to think of? Do I want to 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


171 


be bothered with such childish nonsense now? Going to Fred! 
What does she want with Fred? He has other things in his mind. 
Let her go home, that is the only thing to do — ” 

“ So we have told her; but she says she wants to go to the train; 
and something about my father who is here, and will be going too.” 

“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom, sharply. She gave Effie 
a look of alarm, almost threatening, yet imploring — a look which 
asked her how much she knew, yet defied her to know anything. 

“The poor little thing has got a fright,” she said, subduing her 
voice. “lam not angry with you, Effie; you mean it kindly, but it 
would never, never do. You must go home.” 

Effie’s strength had ebbed out of her as she stood turning her be- 
wildered head from one to another, hearing with a shock unspeaka- 
ble that Fred — Fred whom she had been so anxious to succor — 
would not want her, which made the strangest revolution in her 
troubled mind. But still mechanically she held to her point. 

“ I will not be any trouble. I will just sit in the corner and never 
say a word. Let me go to the train with Mr. Dirom. Let me go— 
with him. He is very kind, he will not mind.” 

“ Mamma, do you hear what she says? She has said it again and 
again. Can papa be here and none of us know?” 

“ Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom once more. Her tone 
was angry, but it was full of alarm. She turned her back on the 
others and looked at Effie with eyes that were full of anguish, of 
secrecy and confidence, warning her, entreating her, yet defying. 

“How should he be here when he has so much to do elsewhere?” 
she cried. “The child has got that, with the other nonsense, into 
her head.” Then, with a sudden change of tone, “ I will take her to 
my room to be quiet, and you can order the brougham to take her 
home.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“ She was sent home in the brougham that disturbed all our sleep 
just dashing along the road at the dead of night. They were in a 
terrible state before that. The minister, too, was here, looking like 
a ghost to hear if we knew anything, and how could we say we 
knew anything, seeing she had parted from here in the afternoon not 
over well pleased with Beenie and me. And Mrs. Ogilvie— she is 
not a woman I am fond of, and how far I think she’s to blame I 
would just rather not say— but I will say this, that I was sorry for 
her that night. She came, too, with a shawl over her head, just out 
of herself. She had got the old man off to his bed, never letting on 
that Effie was out of the house; and she was in a terror for him 
waking, and the girl not there.” 

“ No fear of him waking; he is just an old doited person,” said 
Miss Beenie, with indignation. 

“ Not so old as either you or me. But let alone till I’ve told my 
story. And then, Ronald, my man, you’ve heard what’s followed. 
Not only a failure, but worse and worse; and the father “fled the 
country. They say he had the assurance to come down here to get 
some papers that were laid up in his wife’s jewel-press, and that Ef- 
fie saw him. But he got clean away ; and it’s a fraudulent bank- 
ruptcy — or, if there’s anything worse than a fraudulent bankruptcy, 
it’s that. Oh, yes, there has been a great deal of agitation, and it is 
perhaps just as well that you were out of the way. I cannot tell 
whether I feel for the family or not. There is no look about them 
as if they thought shame. They’re just about the same as ever, at 
kirk and at market, with their horses and carriages. They tell me 
it takes a long time to wind up an establishment like that— and why 
should they not take the good of their carriages and their horses as 
long as they have them? But I’m perhaps a very old-fashioned 
woman. I would not have kept them, not a day. I would never 
have ridden the one nor driven about in the other, with my father a 
hunted swindler, and my family’s honor all gone to ruin — never, 
never I I would rather have died.” 


( 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


173 


“ Sarah, that is just what you will do, if you work yourself up 
like this. Will ye not remember what the doctor says?” 

“ Oh, go away with your doctors.. I’m an old-fashioned woman, 
but I’m a woman of strong feelings; I just cannot endure it! and to 
think that Effie, my poor little Effie, will still throw in her lot with 
them, and will not be persuaded against it!” 

“ Why should she be persuaded against it?” said Eonald Suther- 
land, with a very grave face. “ Nobody can believe that the money 
would make any difference to her; and I suppose the man was not 
to blame.” 

“ The man was nothing one way or another. He got the advan- 
tage of the money, and he was too poor a creature ever to ask how 
it was made. But it’s not that; the thing is that her heart was never 
in it— never! She was driven — no, not driven— if she had been 
driven she would have resisted. She was just pushed into it, just 
persuaded to listen, and then made to see there was no escape. 
Didn’t I tell you that, Beenie, before there was word of all this, be- 
fore Ronald came home? The little thing had no heart for it. She 
just got white like a ghost when there was any talk about marriage. 
She would hear of nothing, neither the trou-so, as they call it now, 
nor any of the nonsense that girls take a natural pleasure in. But now 
her little soul is just on fire. She will stick to him — she will not for- 
sake him. And here am I in my bed, not able to take her by her 
shoulders and to tell her the man’s not worthy of it, and that she’ll 
rue it just once, and that will be her life long.” 

“Oh!” cried Miss Beenie, wringing her hands, “what is the use 
of a woman being in her bed if she is to go on like that? You will 
just bring on another attack, and where will we all be then? The 
doctor, he says — ” 

“You are greatly taken up with what the doctor says; that’s one 
thing of being in my bed,” said Miss Dempster, with a laugh — “ that 
I cannot see the doctor and his ways— his dram — that he would 
come to the window and take off, with a nod up at you and me.” 

“ Oh, Sarah, nothing of the kind. It was no dram, in the first 
place, but just a small drop of sherry with his quinine.” 

“ That’s very like, that’s very like,” said Miss Dempster, with a 
satirical laugh, “ the good, honest, innocent man. I wonder it was 
not tea, just put in a wineglass for the sake of appearances, Are 
you sure, Beenie, it was not tea?” 


174 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


“ Oh, Sarah, the doctor, he has just been your diversion. But if 
you would be persuaded what a regard he has for you — ay, and re- 
spect too — and says that was always his feeling, even when he knew 
you were gibing and laughing at him.” 

“ A person that has the sense to have a real illness will always 
command a doctor’s respect. If I recover, things will just fall into 
their old way; but make your mind easy, Beenie, I will not recover, 
and the doctor will have a respect for me all his days. ” 

“Oh, Sarah!” cried Miss Beenie, weeping. “Ronald, I wish you 
would speak to her. You have a great influence with my sister, and 
you might tell her— You are just risking your life, and what good 
can that do?” 

“ I am not risking my life; my life’s all measured, and reeling out. 
But I would like to see that bit little Effle come to a better under- 
standing before I die. Ye will be a better doctor for her than me, 
Ronald. Tell her from me she is a silly thing. Tell her yon is not 
the right man for her, and that I bid her with my dying breath not 
to be led away with a vain conceit, and do what will spoil her life 
and break her heart. He’s not worthy of it — no man is worthy of 
it. You may say that to her, Ronald, as if it was the last thing I had 
to say.” 

“ No, ” said Ronald. His face had not at all relaxed. It was fixed 
with the set seriousness of a man to whom the subject is far too im- 
portant for mirth or change of feature. “No,” he said, “I will 
tell Effle nothing of the kind. I would rather she should do what 
was right than gain an advantage for myself.” 

“Right? there is no question about right 1” cried the old lady. 
“He’s not worthy of it. You’ll see even that he’ll not desire it. 
He’ll not understand it. That’s just my conviction. How should 
his father’s son understand a point of honor like that? a man that is 
just nobody, a parvenu, a creature that money has made, and that 
the want of it will unmake. That’s not a man at all for a point of 
honor. You need say nothing from yourself; though you are an 
old friend, and have a right to show her all the risks, and what she 
is doing; but if you don’t tell her what I’m saying I will just— I will 
just— haunt you, you creature without spirit, you lad without a 
backbone until ye, you — ” 

But here Miss Beenie succeeded in drawing Ronald from the room. 

“Why will ye listen to her?” cried the younger sister; “ye will 


EFFEE OGILVrE. 


175 


just help her to her own destruction. When I’m telling you the 
doctor says— oh, no, I’m pinning my faith to no doctor; but it’s just 
as clear as daylight, and it stands to reason— she will have another 
attack if she goes on like yon — ” 

The fearful rush she made at him, the clutch upon his arm, his 
yielding to the impulse which he could not resist, none of these 
things moved Ronald. His countenance was as set and serious as 
ever, the humor of the situation did not touch him. He neither 
smiled nor made any response. Down-stairs with Miss Beenie, out 
of sight of the invalid who was so violent in the expression of her 
feelings, he retained the same self-absorbed look. 

“If she thinks it right,” he said, “I am not the one to put any 
difficulty before her. The thing for me to do is just to go away — ” 

“Don’t go away and leave us, Ronald, when no mortal can tell 
what an hour or a day may bring forth; and Sarah always so fond 
of you, and you such a near connection, the nearest we have in this 
country-side — ” 

“What should happen in a day or an hour, and of what service 
can I be?” he asked. “ Of course, if I can be of any use — ” but he 
shook his head. Ronald, like most people, had his mind fixed upon 
his own affairs. 

“ Oh, have ye no eyes?” cried Miss Beenie; “ have none of ye any 
eyes? You are thinking of a young creature that has all her life 
before her, and time to set things right if they should go wrong; 
but nobody has a thought for my sister, that has been the friend of 
every one of you, that has never missed giving you good advice, 
or putting you in the way you should go. And now here is she just 
slipping away on her last journey, and none of you paying attention! 
not one, not one!” she cried, wringing her hands, “nor giving a 
thought of pity to me that will just be left alone in the world.” 

Miss Beenie, who had come o\it to the door with the departing 
visitor, threw herself down on the bench outside, her habitual seat 
in happier days, and burst into subdued weeping. 

“ I darena even cry when she can see me. It’s a relief to get leave 
to cry,” she said; “ for, oh, cannot ye see, not one of ye, that she’s 
fading away like the morning mist and like the summer flowers?” 

The morning mist and the summer flowers were not images very 
like Miss Dempster, who lay like an old tree, rather than any deli- 
cate and fragile thing; but Dr. Jardine, coming briskly up on his 


176 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 


daily visit, was not susceptible to appropriateness of metaphor. He 
came up to Miss Beenie and patted her on the shoulder with a home- 
ly familiarity which a few months ago would have seemed presump- 
tion to the ladies of Rosebank. 

“Maybe no,” he said, “maybe no, who can tell? And even if it 
were so, why should you be alone? I see no occasion — Come up, 
and we’ll see how she is to-day.” 

Ronald Sutherland, left alone, walked down the slope very solemn- 
ly, with his face as rigid as ever. Miss Dempster was his old and 
good friend, but, alas, he thought nothing of Miss Dempster. 

“If she thinks it right, it must be so,” he was saying to himself. 
“If she thinks it’s right, am I the one to put any difficulty in the 
way?” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


To postpone the self-sacrifice of an enthusiast for weeks, or even 
for clays, is the hardest of all tests, and a trial almost beyond the 
power of flesh and blood. Upheld by religious fervor, the human 
soul may be equal to this or any other test ; but in lesser matters, 
and specially in those self-sacrifices prompted by generosity, which 
to the youthful hero or heroine seem at the first glance so inevitable, 
so indispensable, things which no noble mind would shrink from, 
the process of waiting is a terrible ordeal. 

He, or, still more, she, who would have given fife itself, happiness, 
anything, everything that is most prized in existence, with a light 
heart, and the most perfect conviction at the moment, becomes, as 
the days go by, the victim of a hundred chilling doubts and ques- 
tions. Her courage, like that of Bob Acres, oozes out at her finger- 
ends. She is brought to the bar of a thousand suppressed, yet never 
extinguished, reasonings. 

Is it right to feign love even for her lover’s sake? is it right to do 
another so great an injury as to delude him into the thought that 
he is making you happy, while, in reality, you are sacrificing all 
happiness for him? Is it right — ? but these questions are so mani- 
fold and endless that it is vain to enumerate them. 

Eflie had been the victim of this painful process for three long, 
lingering weeks. She had little, very little, to support her in her de- 
termination. The papers had been full of the great bankruptcy, 
of details of Dirom’s escape, and of the valuable papers and securi- 
ties which had disappeared with him ; and with a shiver EflSe had 
understood that the scene she had seen unawares through the win- 
dow had meant far more than even her sense of mystery and secrecy 
in it could have helped her to divine. 

The incidents of that wonderful night — the arguments of the moth- 
er and sisters, who had declared that the proposed expedition would 
be nothing but an embarrassment to Fred — her return ashamed and 
miserable in the carriage into which they had thrust her— had been 
12 


178 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


fatal to the fervor of the enthusiasm which had made her at first 
capable of anything. Looking back upon it now, it was with an 
overwhelming shame that she recognized the folly of that first idea. 
Effie had grown half a dozen years older in a single night. She 
imagined what might have happened had she carried out that wild 
intention, with one of those scathing and burning blushes which 
seem to scorch the very soul. She imagined Fred’s look of wonder, 
his uneasiness, perhaps his anger at her folly, which placed him in so 
embarrassing a position. 

Eflie felt that, had she seen those feelings in his eyes even for a 
moment, she would have died of shame. He had written to her, 
warmly thanking her for her “sympathy, ’’for her “generous feel- 
ing,” for the telegram (of which she knew nothing) which had been 
so consolatory to him, for the “unselfishness,” the “ beautiful, brave 
thought” she had for a moment entertained of coming to him, of 
standing by him. • 

“ Thank you, dearest, for this lovely quixotism,” he had said; “it 
was like my Effie,” as if it had been a mere impulse of girlish ten- 
derness, and not the terrible sacrifice of a life which she had in- 
tended it to be. This letter had been overwhelming to Effie, not- 
withstanding, or, perhaps, by reason of, its thanks and praises. He 
had, it was clear, no insight into her mind, no real knowledge of her 
at all. He had never divined anything, never seen below the surface. 

If she had done what she intended, if she had indeed gone to him, 
he living as he was! EflQe felt as if she must sink into the ground 
when she realized this possibility. And as she did so her heart 
failed her, her courage, her strength oozed away; and there was 
no one to whom she could speak. Doris and Phyllis came to see 
her now and then, but there was no encouragement in them. They 
were going abroad; they had ceased to make any reference to that 
independent action on their own part which was to have followed 
disaster to the firm. There was, indeed, in their conversation no ac- 
count made of any downfall; their calculations about their travels 
were all made on the ground of wealth. And Fred had taken refuge 
in his studio they said — he was going to be an artist, s he had always 
wished; he was going to devote himself to art; they said this with a 
significance which Effie in her simplicity did not catch, for she was 
not aware that devotion to art interfered with the other arrangements 
of life. And tJxis was all. She had no encouragement on that sid^j 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


179 


and her resolution, her courage, her strength of purpose, her self- 
devotion oozed away. 

Strangely enough, the only moral support she had was from Ron- 
ald, who met her with that preternaturally grave face, and asked for 
Fred, whom he had never asked for before, and said something inar- 
ticulate which Effie understood, to the effect that he, for one, would 
never put difficulties in her way. What did he mean ? No one 
could have explained it — not even himself; and yet Effie knew. 
Ronald had the insight which Fred, with those foolish praises of her 
generosity and her quixotism, did not possess. 

And so the days went on, with a confusion in the girl’s mind 
which it would be hopeless to describe. Her whole life seemed to 
hang in a balance, wavering wildly between earth and heaven. 
What was to be done with it? What was she to do with it? Eric was 
on his way home, and would arrive shortly, for his sister’s marriage, 
and all the embarrassment of that meeting lay before her, taking 
away the natural delight of it, which at another moment would have 
been so sweet to Effie. Even Uncle John was of little advantage to 
her in this pause. He accompanied her in her walks, saying little. 
Neither of them knew what to say. All the wedding preparations 
had come to a standstill, tacitly, without any explanation made ; and 
in the face of Fred’s silence on the subject Effie could say nothing, 
neither could her champion say anything about the fulfilment of 
her engagement. 

Mrs. Ogilvie, on the other hand, was full of certainty and self-sat- 
isfaction. 

“He has just acted as I expected, like a gentleman,” she said, 
^‘making no unpleasantness. He is unfortunate in his connections, 
poor young man ; but I always said that there was the makings of a 
real gentleman in young Dirom. You see I have just been very 
right in my calculations. He has taken my letter in the right spirit. 
How could he do otherwise? He had the sense to see at once that 
Robert could never give his daughter to a ruined man.” 

“ There could not be two opinions on that subject,” said her hus- 
band, still more satisfied with himself. 

“There might, I think, be many opinions,” the minister said, 
mildly. “If two young people love each other, and stick to it, 
there is no father but will be vanquished by them at the end.” 

That’s all your sentimentality, ” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Let them 


180 


EFFIE 06ILVIE. 


come and tell me about their love as you call it, they would soon 
get their answer. Any decent young woman, let alone a girl brought 
up like Effie, would think shame.” 

“Effle will not think shame,” said Mr. Moubray, “if the young 
man is equal to Mrs. Ogilvie’s opinion of him. You will have to 
make up your mind to encounter your own child, Robert — which is 
far harder work than to meet a stranger — in- mortal conflict. For 
Effle will never take your view of the matter. She will not see that 
misfortune has anything to do with it. She will say that what was 
done for good fortune was done for bad. She will stand by him.” 

“Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am not ashamed to name the 
name of love for my part. There was no love on Effle’s sidd. No, 
no, her heart was never in it. It is just a blaze of generosity and 
that kind of thing. You need have no trouble so far as that is con- 
cerned. When she sees that it’s not understood, her feeling will just 
die out, like that lowing of thorns under the pot which is mentioned in 
Scripture ; or most likely she will take offence — and that will be still 
better. For he will not press it, partly because he will think it’s not 
honorable, and partly because he has to struggle for himself and has 
the sense tO see it will be far better not to burden himself with a wife. ” 
“If you were so sure there was no love on Effle’s side, why did you 
let it go on?” said Mr. Moubray, with a little severity. 

“Why did I let it go on? just for the best reason in the world — 
because at that time he was an excellent match, ^as I to let her 
ruin the best sitting-down in all the country-side for a childish folly? 
No, no; I have always set my heart on doing my duty to Robert’s 
daughter, and that was just the very best that could be done for her. 
It’s different now; and here is another very flne lad, under our very 
hand. One that is an old joe, that she has known all her life, and 
might have been engaged to him but for — different reasons. Noth- 
ing’s lost, and he’s just turned up in the very nick of time, if you do 
not encourage her in her daft ideas. Uncle John.” 

“I do not consider them daft ideas; and that Effle should go from 
one to another like a puppet when you pull the strings — ” 

“Oh, I am not a clever person; I cannot meet you with your 
images and your metaphors; but this I can say,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, 
solemnly, “ that it is just your niece’s happiness that is at stake, and 
if you come between her and what is just and right, the blame will 
be yours and not mine.” 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 


181 


Mr. Moubray went away very much troubled, with this in his 
mind. Effie had not loved Fred, and it was possible that she might 
love Ronald, that she might have had an inclination towards him 
all along; but was it possible that she should tlius change— put down 
one and take up another— resign even the man she loved not, as no 
longer a good match, and accept the man she might love because he 
was? ; 

Marriage without love is a horror to every pure mind ; it was to the 
minister the most abhorrent of all thoughts; and yet it was not so 
degrading, so deplorable as this. He went home to his lonely house 
with a great oppression on his soul. What could he say, what ad- 
vise to the young and tender creature who had been brought to such 
a pass, and who had to find her way out of it, iie could not tell how? 
He had nothing to say to her. He could not give her a counsel ; he 
did not even know how to approach the subject. He had to leave 
her alone at this crisis of her fate. 

The actual crisis came quite unexpectedly when no one thought 
it near. It had come to be December, and Christmas, which should 
have witnessed the marriage, was not far off. The Diroms were 
said to be preparing to leave Allonby; but except when they were 
met riding or driving they were little seen by the neighbors, few of 
whom, to tell the truth, had shown much interest in them since the 
downfall. Suddenly, in the afternoon of one of those dull winter 
days when the skies had begun to darken and the sun had set, the 
familiar dog-cart, which had been there so often, dashed in at the 
open gates of Gilston, and Fred Dirom jumped out. He startled old 
George first of all by asking, not for Miss, but for Mrs. Ogilvie. 

“Miss Efl5e is in, sir. I wull tell her in a moment," George said, 
half from opposition, half because he could not believe his ears. 

“ I want to see Mrs. Ogilvie," replied the young man, and he was 
ushered in accordingly, not without a murmured protest on the part 
of the old servant, who did not understand this novel method of 
procedure. 

The knowledge of Fred’s arrival thrilled through the house. It 
flitted up-stairs to the nursery, it went down to the kitchen. The 
very walls pulsated to his arrival. Effie became aware of it, she 
did not herself know how, and sat trembling, expecting at every mo- 
ment to be summoned. But no summons came. • She waited for 
some time, and then, with a strong quiver of excitement, braced her- 


180 


EPFIE OGILVIE. 


self up for ttie final trial and stole down-stairs. George was linger- 
ing about the hall. He shook his gray head as he saw her on the 
stairs, then pointed to the door of the drawing-room. 

“ He’s in there,” said the old man, “and I would bide for no ca’. 
I would suffer nae joukery-pawkery; I would just gang ben.” 

Effie stood on the stairs for a moment like one who prepares for a 
fatal plunge, then with her pulses loud in her ears, and every nerve 
quivering, ran down the remaining steps and opened the door. 

Fred was standing in the middle of the room holding Mrs. Ogil- 
vie’s hand. He did not at first hear the opening of the door, done 
noiselessly by Effie in her whirl of passionate feeling. 

“ If you think it will be best,” he was saying; “ I desire to do only 
what is best for her. I don’t want to agitate or distress her — Efflel” 

In. a moment he had dropped her stepmother’s hand and made a 
hurried step towards the apparition, pale, breathless, almost speech- 
less with emotion, at the door. He was pale too, subdued, serious, 
very different from the easy and assured youth who had so often 
met her there. 

“Effie! my dearest, generous girl!” 

“ Oh, Fred! what has become of you all this time? did you think 
that I was like the rest?” 

“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you are just spoiling every- 
thing both for him and for yourself. What brought you here? you 
are not wanted here. He has plenty on his mind without you. 
Just you go back again where you came from. He has told me all 
he wants to say. You here just makes everything worse.” 

Fred had taken her hands into his. He looked into her eyes with 
a gaze which Effie did not understand. 

“To think you should be willing to encounter even poverty and mis- 
ery for me!” he said; “ but I cannot take you at your word. I can- 
not expose you to that struggle. It must be put op indefinitely, my 
sweetest girl; alas, that I should have to say it! when another fort- 
night, only two weeks more, should have made us happy.” 

He stooped down and kissed her hands. There was a tone of pro- 
tection, compassion, and respect in his voice. He was consoling her 
quite as much as himself. 

“Postponed?” she said, faltering, gazing at him with an astonish- 
ment which was mingled with dismay. 

“Alas, yes, my generous darling; though you are willing, I am 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 183 ’ 

not able to carry out our engagement; that is what I have been ex- 
plaining. Don’t think it is not' as bad for me as for you.” 

“ As bad for me’ as for you ” — the blood rushed to Effie’s counte- 
nance in a wild flood of indignation and horror. As bad for him as for 
her! She stood aghast, her eyes flx®d upon his, in which their was — 
could it be? — a complaisance, a self-satisfaction mingled with regret. 

Fred had not the least conception of the feeling which had moved 
her. He knew nothing about the revolution made in all her 
thoughts by the discovery of his ruin, or of her impassioned deter- 
mination to stand by him, and sacrifice everything to his happiness. 
No idea of the truth had entered his mind. He was sorry for her 
disappointment, which, indeed, was not less to him than to her, 
though, to be sure, a girl, he knew, always felt it more than a man. 
But when EflSe, in her hurt pride and wounded feeling, uttered a 
cry of astonishment and dismay, he took it for the appeal of disap- 
pointment, and replied to it hastily : 

“It cannot be helped,” he said. “Do you think it is an easy 
thing for me to say so? but what can I do? I have given up every- 
thing. A man is not like the ladies. I am going back to the 
studio — to work in earnest, where I used only to play at working. 
How could I ask you to go there with me, to share such a life? 
And besides, if I am to do anything, I must devote myself altogeth- 
er to art. If things were to brighten, then, indeed, you may be 
sure — without an hour’s delay 1’^ 

She had drawn her hands away, but he recovered possession of 
one, which he held in his, smoothing and patting it, as if he were 
comforting a child. A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind 
as he stood there, smiling at her pathetically, yet not without a 
touch of vanity, comprehending nothing, without the faintest gleam 
of perception as to what she had meant, sorry for her, consoling 
her for her loss, feeling to his heart the value of what she had lost, 
which was himself. 

Her dismay, her consternation, the revulsion of feeling which 
sent the blood boiling through her veins, were to him only the nat- 
ural vexation, distress, and disappointment of a girl whose marriage- 
had been close at hand, and was now put off indefinitely. For this: 
— which was so natural — he was anxious to console her. He 
wanted her to feel it as little as possible— to see that it was nobody’s 
fault, that it could not be helped. Of all the passionate impulses 


184 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


tliat had coursed through her veins he knew nothing, nothing! He 
could not divine them, or understand, even if he had divined. 

“At best,’^ he said, still soothing her, patting her hand, “the 
postponement must be for an indefinite time. And how can I ask 
you to waste your youth, dearest Effie? I have done you harm 
enough already. I came to let you know the real state of affairs — 
to set you free from your engagement to me, if,’’ he said, pressing 
her hand again, looking into her face, “you will accept — ” 

His face appeared to her like something floating in the air, his 
voice vibrated and rang about her in circles of sound. She drew 
her hand almost violently away, and withdrew a little, gazing at 
him half stupefied, yet with a keen impatience and intolerance in 
her disturbed mind. 

“I accept,” she said, hoarsely, with a sense of mortification and 
intense, indignant shame, which was stronger than any sensation 
Effie had ever felt in her life before. 

That was what he thought of her ; this man for whom she had 
meant to sacrifice herself! She began hastily to draw off the ring 
which he had given her from her finger, which, slight as it was, 
seemed to grow larger with her excitement and tremulousness, and 
made the operation difficult. 

“ Take it,” she said, holding out the ring to. him. “It is yours, 
not mine.” 

“No, no*,” he said, putting back her extended hand softly, “not 
that. If we part, don’t let it be in anger, Effie. Keep that at least, 
for a recollection — for a token — ” 

She scarcely heard what words he used. It was he who had the 
better of it, she felt. She was angry, disappointed, rejected. Was 
not that what everybody would think? She held the ring in her 
hand for a moment, then let it drop from her fingers. It fell with 
a dull sound on the carpet at his feet. Then she turned round, 
somehow controlling her impulse to cry out, to rush away, and 
walked to the door. 

“I never expected she would have shown that sense and judg- 
ment,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, after she had shown the visitor, whose 
exit was even more hasty than his arrival, and his feelings far from 
comfortable, to the door. She sat down at her writing - table at 
once with that practical sense and readiness which never forsook her. 

“ Now I will just write and ask Ronald to his dinner,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


But things did not go so easily as Mrs, Ogilvie supposed they would. 

Ethe had received a blow which it was not easy to forget. The pre- 
vious mistakes of her young career might have been forgotten, and 
it is possible that she might have come to be tolerably happy in the 
settling down and evaporation of all young thoughts and dreams, 
had she, in the fervor of her first impulse, become Fred Dirom’s 
wife. It would not have- been the happiness of her ideal, but it 
often happens that an evanescent splendor like that which illu- 
mines the early world dies away with comparative harmlessness, 
and leaves a very good substitute of solid satisfaction on a secon- 
dary level, with which all but the visionary learn to be content. 

But the sharp and keen awakening with which she opened her 
eyes on a disenchanted world, when she found her attempted sacri- 
fice so misunderstood, and felt herself put back into the common- 
place position of a girl disappointed, she who had risen to the point 
of heroism, and made up her mind to give up her very life, cannot 
be described. Effie did not turn in the rebound to another love, as 
her stepmother fully calculated. Though that other love was the 
first, the most true, the only faithful, though she was herself vague- 
ly aware that in him she would find the comprehension for which 
she longed, as well as the love — though her heart, in spite of her- 
self, turned to this old playmate and companion with an aching de- 
sire to tell him everything, to get the support of his sympathy, yet, at 
the same time, Effle shrank from Ronald as she shrank from every one. 

The delicate fibres of her being had been torn and severed ; they 
would not heal or knit together again. It might be that her heart 
was permanently injured and never would recover its tone, it might 
be that the recoil from life and heart-sickness might be only tem- 
porary. Xo one could tell. Mrs. Ogilvie, who would not believe 
at first that the appearance of Ronald would be ineffectual, or that 
the malady was more than superficial, grew impatient afterwards. 

“It is all just selfishness,” she said; “it is just childish. Be- 
cause she cannot have what she wanted, she will not take what she 


186 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


can get; and the worst of all is that she never wanted it when she 
could have it.” 

That’s just the way with women,” saidher husband; “ye are all 
alike. Let her come to herself, and don’t bore me about her as you’re 
doing night and day. What is a girl and her sweetheart to me?” 

“ Don’t you think,” said Mr. Moubray, “ if you had been honest 
with EflBe from the first, if you had allowed her own heart to speak, 
if there had been no pressure on one side, and no suppression on the 
other — ” 

“In short,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, with a flush of anger, “if we had 
just left everything to a bit silly thing that has not had the wit to 
guide herself in the most simple, straightforward way, where ye 
would have thought a fool could not go wrong — ” 

Mr. Ogilvie at this lifted ^his head. 

“Are ye quarrelling with John Moubray, Janet?” he said; 
“things must have come to a pretty pass when you fling yourself 
upon the minister,*not content with putting me to silence. If ye’re 
ill-pleased with Efiie,” said the head of the family, “letEffle bear 
the wyte; but what have we done, him and me?” 

The minister, however, was EflSe’s resource and help. He opened 
his own heart to her, showing her how it had bled and how it had 
been healed, and by and by the girl came to see, with slowly grow- 
ing perception and a painful, yet elevating, knowledge, how many 
things lay hidden in the lives and souls which presented often a 
commonplace exterior to the world. This was a moment in 
which it seemed doubtful whether the rending of all those deli- 
cate chords in her own being might not turn to bitterness and a per- 
manent loss and injury. She was disposed to turn her face from 
the light, to avoid all tenderness and sympathy, to find that man de- 
lighted her not, nor woman either. 

It was in this interval that Eric’s brief but very unsatisfactory 
visit took place, which the young fellow felt was as good as the loss of 
his six weeks’ leave altogether. To be sure, there was a hard frost 
which made him some amends, and the delights of skating and 
curling compensated him for his long journey home; and Ronald, 
his old comrade, whom he had expected to lose, went back with 
him, which was something to the credit side. But he could not un- 
derstand EfiSe, and was of opinion that she had been jilted, and 
could scarcely be kept from making some public demonstration 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


187 


against Fred Dirom, who had used his sister ill he thought. This 
mistake, too, added to Effie’s injuries of spirit a keener pang; and 
the tension was cruel. 

But when Eric and Eonald were gone again, and all had relapsed 
into silence, the balance turned, and the girl began to be herself 
once more, or rather to be a better and loftier self, never forgetful 
of the sudden cross and conflict of the forces of life which had made 
so strong an impression upon her youth. 

Miss Dempster, after some further suffering, died quite peaceful- 
ly in the ruddy dawn of a winter’s morning, after doing much to in- 
struct the world and her immediate surroundings from her sick-bed, 
and much enjoying the opportunity. She did not sleep very well 
the last few nights, and the prospect of “ just getting a good sleep 
in my coffin before you bury me, and it all begins again,” was agree- 
able to her. 

She seemed to entertain the curious impression that the funeral 
of her body would be the moment of reawakening for her soul, and 
that till that flnal incident occurred she would not be severed from 
this worldly life, which thus literally was rounded by a sleep. It 
was always an annoyance to her that her room was to the back, and 
she could not see Dr. Jardine, as formerly, come to his window and 
take off his dram; but perhaps it was rather with the sisterly desire 
to tease Beenie than from any other reason that this lan^entation 
(with a twinkle in her eyes) was daily made. 

When she died the whole village and every neighbor far and 
near joined in the universal lamentation. Those who had called 
her an old cat in her lifetime wept over her when she was laid in 
the grave, and remembered all her good deeds, from the old wives 
in the village, who had never wanted their pickle tea or their pinch 
of snuff so long as Miss Dempster was to the fore, to the laird’s 
wife herself, who thought regretfully of the silver candlesticks, and 
did not hesitate to say that nobody need be afraid of giving a party, 
whether it was a dinner or a ball-supper that had to be provided, so 
long as Miss Dempster was mistress of the many superfluous knives 
and forks at Rosebank. 

“ She was just a public benefactor,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had 
not always expressed that opinion. 

As for Miss Beenie, her eyes were rivers of tears, and her sister’s 
admirable qualities her only theme. She lived but to mourn and 


188 


EFFIE OGILVIE. 


to praise the better half of her existence, her soul being as much 
widowed by this severance as if she had been a bereaved wife in- 
stead of a sister. 

“Nobody can tell what she was to me, just more than can be 
put into words. She was mother and sister and mistress and guide 
all put into one. I’m not a whole human creature. I am but part 
of one, left like a wreck upon the shore— and the worst part,” Miss 
Beenie said. 

The doctor, who had been suspected of a tear himself at the old 
lady’s funeral, and had certainly blown his nose violently on the way 
back, was just out of all patience with Miss Beenie’s yammering, he 
said, and he missed the inspection of himself and all his concerns 
that had gone on from Rosebank. He was used to it, and he did 
not know how to do without it. 

One spring morning, after the turn of the year, he went up, with 
a very resolute air, the tidy gravel path between the laurel hedges. 

“Eh, doctor, I cannot bide to hear your step, and yet I am fain, 
fain to hear it; for it’s like as if she was still in life, and ye were 
coming to see her.” 

“ Miss Beenie,” said the doctor, “ this cannot go on forever. She 
was a good woman, and she has gone to a better place. But one 
thing is certain, that ye cannot bide here forever, and that I cannot 
bide to leave you here. You must just come your ways across the 
road, and set up your tabernacle with me.” 

At this Miss Beenie uttered a cry of consternation. “ Doctor! you 
mu3t be taking leave of your senses. Mel” 

“And why not you?” said Dr. Jardine. “ You would be far bet- 
ter over the way. It’s more cheerful, and we would be company for 
one another. I am not ill company when I am on my mettle. I de- 
sire that you will just think it over, and fix a day.” 

And after a while Miss Beenie found that there was sense in the 
suggestion, and dried her eyes, and did as she was desired, having 
been accustomed to do so, as she said, all her life. 

The Diroms disappeared from Allonby as if they had never been 
there, and were heard of no more; though not without leaving dis- 
astrous traces at least in one heart and life. 

But it may be that Effle's wounds are not mortal after all. And 
one day Captain Sutherland must come home. 

And who knows? 


THE END. 


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